It was, however, impossible for Lady Sybil to realise how foolish she was being.
“I love you, Tyrone!” she had cried passionately when last he was with her. “Why can I not be with you, not only occasionally, but always and for ever?”
The Marquis had heard this question before and he did not bother to reply.
At the time he was dressing himself neatly and methodically in front of the mirror over the mantelpiece in Lady Sybil’s bedroom.
She was lying back against the silk pillows, her perfect body glowing like a translucent pearl and her red hair falling over her white shoulders.
Lady Sybil could have posed for a picture of any of the numerous Venuses beloved of the Romans.
Yet the Marquis’s eyes as he saw her reflection in the mirror were hard.
Although she was not at all aware of it,
