Sylvia Bailey--lovely, wilful, spoilt
Sylvia--was a very young woman, and ridiculously innocent, as this old
lady truly said.
He, Chester, knew that a great many nice people went to Monte Carlo, and
spent sometimes a good deal more money than they could afford at the
tables. It was absurd to be angry with Sylvia for doing here what very
many other people did in another place. He felt sincerely grateful to
this fat, vulgar looking woman for having put the case so clearly.
"It's very good of you to do that," he answered awkwardly; "I mean it's
very good of you to accompany Mrs. Bailey to this place," he looked round
him with distaste.
They were now downstairs, part of a merry, jostling crowd, which
contained, as all such crowds naturally contain, a rather rowdy element.
"It certainly is no place for Mrs. Bailey to come to by herself--"
He was going to add something, when Sylvia walked forward.
"Where's Count Paul?" she asked, anxiously, of Madame Wachner. "Surely he
did not stay on at the table after we left?"
Madame Wachner shook her head slightly.
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