"If only she had come to us as she arranged to do!" the older woman
exclaimed more than once in a regretful tone. "Then, at any rate, we
should know something; she would not have concealed her plans from us
entirely; we were, if new friends, yet on such kind, intimate terms with
the dear soul!"
And now, as had been the case exactly a week ago, Sylvia was resting in
her room. She was sitting just as she had then sat, in a chair drawn up
close to the window. There had been no ride that morning, for Paul de
Virieu had been obliged to go into Paris for the day.
Sylvia felt dull and listless. She had never before experienced that
aching longing for the presence of another human being which in our
civilised life is disguised under many names, but which in this case,
Sylvia herself called by that of "friendship."
Moreover, she had received that morning a letter which had greatly
disturbed her. It now lay open on her lap, for she had just read it
through again. This letter was quite short, and simply contained the news
that Bill Chester, her good friend, sometime lover, and trustee, was
going to Switzerland after all, and that he would stop a couple of days
in Paris in order to see her.
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