"
"I don't believe they do!" cried Sylvia, hotly. "It is mere prejudice
on their part! He does not like them, and they know it. He thinks them
vulgar sort of people, and he suspects that Monsieur Wachner is
German--that is quite enough for him."
"But, after all, it does not really matter what the Wachners think of the
Comte de Virieu, or what he thinks of them," said Anna. "What matters is
what _you_ think of him, and what _he_ thinks of you."
Sylvia was glad that the darkness hid her deep, burning blushes from Anna
Wolsky.
"You do not realise," said the Polish lady, gravely, "what your life
would be if you were married to a man whose only interest in life is
play. Mind you, I do not say that a gambler does not make a kind husband.
We have an example"--she smiled a little--"in this Monsieur Wachner. He
is certainly very fond of his wife, and she is very fond of him. But
would you like your husband always to prefer his vice to you?"
Sylvia made no answer.
"But why am I talking like that?" Anna Wolsky started up suddenly. "It is
absurd of me to think it possible that you would dream of marrying the
Comte de Virieu! No, no, my dear child, this poor Frenchman is one of
those men who, even if personally charming, no wise woman would think of
marrying.
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