With a hand that shook a little he took his cigarette-case
out of his pocket, and held it out to the other man.
The die was cast. So be it. Chester, prig though he might be, was right
in his wish to remove Sylvia from his, Paul de Virieu's, company. The
Englishman was more right than he would ever know.
How amazed Chester would have been had he been able to see straight into
Paul de Virieu's heart! Had he divined the other's almost unendurable
temptation to take Sylvia Bailey at her word, to impose on her pathetic
ignorance of life, to allow her to become a gambler's wife.
Had the woman he loved been penniless, the Comte de Virieu would probably
have yielded to the temptation which now came in the subtle garb of
jealousy--keen, poisoned-fanged jealousy of this fine looking young
Englishman who stood before them both.
Would Sylvia ever cling to this man as she had clung to him--would she
ever allow Chester to kiss her as she had allowed Paul to kiss her, and
that after he had released the hand she had laid in his?
But alas! there are kisses and kisses--clingings and clingings.
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