How amazed Chester would have been had he been able to see straight into
Paul de Virieu's heart! Had he divined the other's almost unendurable
temptation to take Sylvia Bailey at her word, to impose on her pathetic
ignorance of life, to allow her to become a gambler's wife.

Had the woman he loved been penniless, the Comte de Virieu would probably
have yielded to the temptation which now came in the subtle garb of
jealousy--keen, poisoned-fanged jealousy of this fine looking young
Englishman who stood before them both.

Would Sylvia ever cling to this man as she had clung to him--would she
ever allow Chester to kiss her as she had allowed Paul to kiss her, and
that after he had released the hand she had laid in his?

But alas! there are kisses and kisses--clingings and clingings. Chester,
so the Frenchman with his wide disillusioned knowledge of life felt only
too sure, would win Sylvia in time.

"Shall we go in and find out the time of the Swiss express?" he asked the
other man, "or perhaps you have already decided on a train?"

"No, I haven't looked one out yet."

They strolled off together towards the house, and Sylvia walked blindly
on to the grass and sat down on one of the rocking-chairs of which M.
Polperro was so proud.

She looked after the two men with a sense of oppressed bewilderment. Then
they were both going away--both going to leave her?