Sylvia was by, but a Frenchman, being both a philosopher and a logician
by nature, is very apt to content himself with the second-best when he
knows the best is not for him.

The two friends were in entire contrast to one another. Madame Wolsky was
tall, dark, almost swarthy; there was a look of rather haughty pride and
reserve on her strong-featured face. She dressed extremely plainly, the
only ornament ever worn by her being a small gold horseshoe, in the
centre of which was treasured--so, not long ago, she had confided to
Sylvia, who had been at once horrified and thrilled--a piece of the rope
with which a man had hanged himself at Monte Carlo two years before! For
Madame Wolsky--and she made no secret of the fact to her new friend--was
a gambler.

Anna Wolsky was never really happy, she did not feel more than half
alive, when away from the green cloth. She had only left Monte Carlo
when the heat began to make the place unbearable to one of her northern
temperament, and she was soon moving on to one of the French
watering-places, where gambling of sorts can be indulged in all
the summer through.

Different in looks, in temperament, and in tastes were the two young
widows, and this, perhaps, was why they got on so excellently well
together.

Sylvia Bailey was the foreign ideal of a beautiful Englishwoman. Her hair
was fair, and curled naturally. Her eyes were of that blue which looks
violet in the sunlight; and she had a delicate, rose leaf complexion.

Married when only nineteen to a man much older than herself, she was now