For the first time Sylvia and Marie-Anne d'Eglemont were alone together.
"I wish to thank you for your kindness to my poor Paul," the Duchesse spoke in a low, hesitating voice.

"You have so much influence over him, Madame." Sylvia shook her head.
"Ah! But yes, you have!" She looked imploringly at Sylvia.

"You know what I mean?
You know what I would ask you to do?
My husband could give Paul work in the country, work he would love, for he adores horses, if only he could be rescued from this terrible infatuation, this passion for play." She stopped abruptly, for the Count and his little, fairy-like godmother had turned round, and were now coming towards them.
Sylvia rose instinctively to her feet, for the tiny Marquise was very imposing.
"Sit down, Madame," she said imperiously, and Sylvia meekly obeyed.
The old lady fixed her eyes with an appraising gaze on her godson's English friend.
"Permit me to embrace you," she exclaimed suddenly.

"You are a very pretty creature! And though no doubt young lips often tell you this, the compliments of the old have the merit of being quite sincere!" She bent down, and Sylvia, to her confusion and surprise, felt her cheeks lightly kissed by the withered lips of Paul de Virieu's godmother.
"Madame Bailey's rouge is natural; it does not come off!" the old lady exclaimed, and a smile crept over her parchment-coloured face.

"Not but what a great deal of nonsense is talked about the usage of rouge, my dear children! There is no harm in supplementing the niggardly gifts of nature.