His cynicism, which had grown upon him ever since a certain episode in his life in which he had been almost brutally disillusioned, had become so habitual that he was used to questioning if it was possible for innocence and unsophistication to exist.
He had watched Sylvina that afternoon in the woods and when they had sat in the little Grecian Temple.
He had been intrigued by her beauty, but at the same time some critical part of his brain had questioned whether she was, in fact, completely and absolutely genuine.
‘Could any woman,’ he asked himself, ‘be so ingenuous, so utterly unspoilt, so untouched by the world as she appeared to be?’
The Marquis was used to women who declared their whole-hearted love and devotion for him, but who nevertheless had their feet set firmly on the Social
