impulse which had made him take her into his arms--her hand lay once more
in his hand, as it had lain, for a moment this morning.

Had he grasped and retained that kind, firm little hand in his, an
entirely new life had been within his reach.

A vision rose before Paul de Virieu--a vision of Sylvia and himself
living heart to heart in one of those small, stately manor-houses which
are scattered throughout Brittany. And it was no vague house of dreams.
He knew the little château very well. Had not his sister driven him there
only the other day? And had she not conveyed to him in delicate, generous
words how gladly she would see his sweet English friend established there
as châtelaine?

A sense of immeasurable loss came over Paul de Virieu--But, no, he had
been right! Quite right! He loved Sylvia far too well to risk making her
as unhappy as he would almost certainly be tempted to make her, if she
became his wife.

He took off his hat and remained silent for what seemed to his companion
quite a long time.

"By the way, what is Mrs. Bailey doing to-night?" he asked at last.

"To-night?" replied Chester. "Let me see? Why, to-night she is spending
the evening with those very people--the Wachners, of whom you were
speaking just now. I heard her arranging it with them this afternoon."
He added, stiffly, "But I doubt if your impression as to these people is
a right one. They seem to me a very respectable couple."