This was the first time Sylvia Bailey had met a duchess, and she was
perhaps a little surprised to see how very unpretentious a duchess could
be!
Marie-Anne d'Eglemont spoke in a low, almost timid voice, her English
being far less good than her brother's, and yet how truly kind and
highly-bred she at once showed herself, putting Sylvia at her ease, and
appearing to think there was nothing at all unusual in Mrs. Bailey's
friendship with Paul de Virieu!
And then, after they had lunched in an octagon room of which each panel
had been painted by Van Loo, and which opened on a garden where the green
glades and high trees looked as if they must be far from a great city,
there suddenly glided in a tiny old lady, dressed in a sweeping black
gown and little frilled lace cap.
Count Paul bowing low before her, kissed her waxen-looking right hand.
"My dear godmother, let me present to you Mrs. Bailey," and Sylvia felt
herself being closely, rather pitilessly, inspected by shrewd though not
unkindly eyes--eyes sunken, dimmed by age, yet seeing more, perhaps, than
younger eyes would have seen.
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