Sometimes, as they paced up and down the flower-bordered paths of the old
kitchen-garden, or when, tired of walking, they made their way into the
orangery and sat down on the circular stone bench by the fountain, Sylvia
would remember, deep in her heart, the first time Count Paul had brought
her there; and how she had been a little frightened, not perhaps
altogether unpleasantly so, by his proximity!
She had feared--but she was now deeply ashamed of having entertained such
a thought--that he might suddenly begin making violent love to her, that
he might perhaps try to kiss her! Were not all Frenchmen of his type
rather gay dogs?
But nothing--nothing of the sort had ever been within measurable distance
of happening. On the contrary, he always treated her with scrupulous
respect, and he never--and this sometimes piqued Sylvia--made love to
her, or attempted to flirt with her. Instead, he talked to her in that
intimate, that confiding fashion which a woman finds so attractive in a
man when she has reason to believe his confidences are made to her alone.
When Bill Chester asked her not to do something she desired to do, Sylvia
felt annoyed and impatient, but when Count Paul, as she had fallen into
the way of calling him, made no secret of his wish that she should give
up play, Sylvia felt touched and pleased that he should care.
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