He stared suspiciously at his companion. Was it likely that a real
count--the French equivalent to an English earl--would lead the sort of
life this man, Paul de Virieu, was leading, and in a place like Lacville?
"If you really feel like that, I think I'd better give up my trip to
Switzerland, and go back to Lacville to-morrow morning."
He stared hard at the Count, and noted with sarcastic amusement the
other's appearance--so foppish, so effeminate to English eyes;
particularly did he gaze with scorn at the Count's yellow silk socks,
which matched his lemon-coloured tie and silk pocket handkerchief. Fancy
starting for a long night journey in such a "get-up." Well! Perhaps women
liked that sort of thing, but he would never have thought Sylvia Bailey
to be that sort of woman.
A change came over Paul de Virieu's face. There was unmistakable
relief--nay, more--even joy in the voice with which the Frenchman
answered,
"That is excellent! That is quite right! That is first-rate! Yes, yes,
Mr. Chester, you go back to Lacville and bring her away. It is not right
that Mrs.
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