"To his proposal."
"Of marriage?"
"Dear me, no!" And Sylvie smiled, but there was a look of pain in her eyes, "He has an idyllic house buried in the Foret St. Germain, and he wants me to take possession . . . you know the rest! He is a villain? Yes—he is like Miraudin, who has a luxurious flat in Paris and sends each lady of his harem there in turn. How angry you look! But, my dear, I am not going to the house in the Foret, and I shall not meet him here. He will come—looking charming as usual, and he will wait for me; but I shall not arrive. All I want you to do for me is to receive him very kindly, talk to him very sweetly, and tell him quite suddenly that I have left Paris."
"What good will that do?" enquired Angela, "Could you not write it to him?"
"Of course I could write it to him but—" Here Sylvie paused and turned away her head. Angela, moved by quick instinct, went to her and put her arm around her waist.
"Now there are tears in your eyes, Sylvie," she said, "You are suffering for this man's heartlessness and cruelty. For it IS heartless,—it is insulting, and selfish, and cruel to offer you nothing but dishonour if he knows you love him."
Sylvie took out a tiny cobweb of a lace handkerchief and dried her tears.
"No, I will not have him called heartless, or cruel," she said, "He is merely one of his class. There are hundreds like him in Paris. Never mind my tears!—they are nothing. There are hundreds of women who would accept his proposals,—and he thinks I must be like them,—ready to fall into his arms like a ripe peach at a touch! He thinks all I say to him is an assumed affectation of virtue, and that he can easily break down that slight barricade. He tells me I am a charming preacher, but that he could never learn anything from sermons!" She laughed, "Oh, he is incorrigible! But I want you to let him know that for once he is mistaken. Will you? And you shall not have to say even the smallest figment of an untruth,—your news will be quite correct—for I leave Paris to-morrow morning."
She was very quiet now as she spoke—her brilliant eyes were dark with thought, and her delicate face wore a serious, almost melancholy expression.
"Dear Sylvie!" said Angela, kissing her soft cheek, "You really care for this wretched man?"