“What prospect have I of winning this lady’s affections?”
“I have discovered, no matter how, that you are the only man in Europe who can succeed.”
“Really! That’s very flattering to my vanity,” laughed Wilfrid. “The lady did not send you on this mission, I trust?”
“She is modesty itself, and would die rather than commission any one on such an errand.”
“I ask her pardon for wronging her in thought. Have you got her portrait?”
The Count hesitated for a moment, and then drew forth an ivory miniature.
“Painted three months ago. It scarcely does her justice.”
As Wilfrid’s eyes fell on the miniature he fairly held his breath. It was a face more beautiful than any he had ever seen. The soft violet eyes and the lovely delicate features, with their sweet grave expression that spoke of a nature, pensive and spirituelle, might well inspire love in the heart even of the coldest; much more then in that of a romantic character like Wilfrid.
“Well, what do you think of it?” asked Baranoff.