"Ah, but the world will soon guess!" said Sylvie—"For everyone is beginning to ask where her fiance is—why he has shown no anxiety—why he has not been to see her—and a thousand other questions."
"That does not matter! While she is silent, no one dare accuse him.
What a marvellous spirit of patience and forgiveness she has!"
"Angela is like her name—an angel!" declared Sylvie impulsively, the tears springing to her eyes—"I could almost worship her, when I see her there in her sickroom, looking so white and frail and sad,—quiet and patient—thanking us all for every little service done—and never once mentioning the name of Florian—the man she loved so passionately. Sometimes the dear old Cardinal sits beside her and talks—sometimes her father,—Manuel is nearly always with her, and she is quite easy and content, one would almost say happy when he is there, he is so very gentle with her. But you can see through it all the awful sorrow that weighs upon her heart,—you can see she has lost something she can never find again,—her eyes look so wistful—her smile is so sad—poor Angela!"
Aubrey was silent a moment. "What of the Princesse D'Agramont?"
"Oh, she is simply a treasure!" said Sylvie enthusiastically—"She and my dear old Bozier are never weary in well-doing! As soon as Angela can be moved, the Princesse wants to take her back to Paris,—because then Rome can be allowed to pour into her studio to see her great picture."
"What does Angela say to that?"
"Angela seems resigned to anything!" answered Sylvie. "The only wish she ever expresses is that Manuel should not leave her."
"There is something wonderful about that boy," said Aubrey slowly—"From the first time I saw him he impressed me with a sense of something altogether beyond his mere appearance. He is a child—yet not a child—and I have often felt that he commands me without my realising that I am so commanded."
"Aubrey! How strange!"
"Yes, it is strange!—" and Aubrey's eyes grew graver with the intensity of his thought—"There is some secret—but—" he broke off with a puzzled air—"I cannot explain it, so it is no use thinking about it! I went to Varillo's studio yesterday and asked if there had been any news of him—but there was none. I wonder where the brute has gone!"