LITMIR.BIZ

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The Wachners' home was entirely unlike what he had expected to find it. He had thought to see one of those trim, neat little villas surrounded by gay, exquisitely tended little gardens which are the pride of the Parisian suburban dweller.

      Madame Wachner caught his glance, and the thought crossed her mind uncomfortably that she had perhaps made a mistake, a serious mistake, in asking this priggish-looking Englishman to come to the Châlet des Muguets. He evidently did not like the look of the place.

      "You wonder to see our garden so untidy," she exclaimed, regretfully. "Well, it is the owner's fault, not ours! You would not believe such a thing of a Frenchman, but 'e actually made us promise that we would do nothing—no, nothing at all, to 'is garden. 'E spoke of sending a man once a week to see after it, but no, 'e never did so."

      "I have often wondered," broke in Sylvia frankly, "why you allowed your garden to get into such a state, but now, of course, I understand. What a very odd person your landlord must be, Madame Wachner! It might be such a delightful place if kept in good order. But I'm glad you have had the grass cut. I remember the first time I came here the grass was tremendously high, both in front and behind the house. Yesterday I saw that you have had it cut."

      "Yes," said Madame Wachner, glancing at her, "yes, we had the grass cut a few days ago. Fritz insisted on it."

      "If it had been as high as it was the first time I came here, I could never have made my way through it to the delightful little wood that lies over there, behind the châlet," went on Sylvia. "I don't think I told you that I went over there yesterday and waited a while, hoping that you would come back."

      "You went into the wood!" echoed Madame Wachner in a startled tone. "You should not have done that," she shook her head gravely. "We are forbidden to go into the wood. We 'ave never gone into the wood."

      L'Ami Fritz stood waiting for his visitors in the narrow doorway. He looked more good-tempered than usual, and as they walked in he chatted pleasantly to Chester.

      "This way," he said, importantly. "Do not trouble to go into the salon, Madame! We shall have tea here, of course."

      And Sylvia Bailey was amused, as well as rather touched, to see the preparations which had been made in the little dining-room for the entertainment of Bill Chester and of herself.

      In the middle of the round table which had looked so bare yesterday was a bowl of white roses—roses that had never grown in the untidy garden outside. Two dessert dishes were heaped up with delicious cakes—the cakes for which French pastrycooks are justly famed. There was also a basin full of the Alpine strawberries which Sylvia loved, and of which she always ordered a goodly supply at the Villa du Lac. Madame Wachner had even remembered to provide the thick cream, which, to a foreign taste, spoils the delicate flavour of strawberries.

      They were really very kind people, these Wachners!

      Looking round the funny little dining-room, Sylvia could not help remembering how uncomfortable she had felt when sitting there alone the day before. It was hard now to believe that she should have had that queer, eerie feeling of discomfort and disquietude in such a commonplace, cheerful room. She told herself that there probably had been some little creature hidden there—some shy, wild thing, which maybe had crept in out of the wood.

      "And now I will go and make the tea," said Madame Wachner pleasantly, and Sylvia gaily insisted on accompanying her hostess into the kitchen.

      "We shall 'ave a nicer tea than that first time we made tea 'ere together," said Madame Wachner jovially.

      The young Englishwoman shook her head, smiling.

      "I had a very good time that afternoon!" she cried. "And I shall always feel grateful for your kindness to me and to poor Anna, Madame Wachner. I do so often wonder what Anna is doing with herself, and where she is staying in Paris." She looked wistfully at her companion.

      Madame Wachner was in the act of pouring the boiling water into her china teapot.

      "Ah, well," she said, bending over it, "we shall never know that. Your friend was a strange person, what I call a solitaire. She did not like gambling when there were people whom she knew in the Baccarat Room with her. As to what she is doing now—" she shrugged her shoulders, expressively.

      "You know she telegraphed for her luggage yesterday?" said Sylvia slowly.

      "In that case—if it has had time to arrive—Madame Wolsky is probably on her way to Aix, perhaps even to Monte Carlo. She did not seem to mind whether it was hot or cold if she could get what she wanted—that is, Play—"

      Madame Wachner had now made the tea. She turned and stood with arms akimbo, staring out of the little window which gave on the sun-baked lawn bounded by the chestnut wood.

      "No," she said slowly, "I do not for a moment suppose that you will ever see Madame Wolsky again. It would surprise me very much if you were to do so. For one thing, she must be—well, rather ashamed of the way she treated you—you who were so kind to her, Sylvie!"

      "She was far kinder to me than I was to her," said Sylvia in a low voice.

      "Ah, my dear"—Madame Wachner put her fat hand on Sylvia's shoulder—"you have such a kind, warm, generous heart—that is the truth! No, no, Anna Wolsky was not able to appreciate such a friend as you are! But now the tea is made, made strong to the English taste, we must not leave L'Ami Fritz and Mr. Chester alone together. Gentleman are dull without ladies."

      Carrying the teapot she led the way into the dining-room, and they sat down round the table.

      The little tea-party went off fairly well, but Chester could not forget his strange conversation with Sylvia in the motor. Somehow, he and she had never come so really near to one another as they had done that afternoon. And yet, on the other hand, he felt that she was quite unlike what he had thought her to be. It was as if he had come across a new Sylvia.

      Madame Wachner, looking at his grave, absorbed face, felt uneasy. Was it possible that this Englishman intended to take pretty Mrs. Bailey away from Lacville? That would be a pity—a very great pity!

      She glanced apprehensively at her husband. L'Ami Fritz would make himself very unpleasant if Sylvia left Lacville just now. He would certainly taunt his wife with all the money they had spent on her entertainment—it was money which they both intended should bear a very high rate of interest.

      Chapter XXII

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      The two following days dragged themselves uneventfully away. Sylvia did her best to be kind to Bill Chester, but she felt ill at ease, and could not help showing it.

      And then she missed the excitement and interest of the Casino. Bill had not suggested that they should go there, and she would not be the one to do so.

      The long motoring expeditions they took each afternoon gave her no pleasure. Her heart was far away, in Brittany; in imagination she was standing by a grave surrounded by a shadowy group of men and women, mourning the old Marquise who had left Count Paul the means to become once more a self-respecting and respected member of the world to which he belonged by right of birth....

      Had it not been for the Wachners, these two days of dual solitude with Chester would have been dreary indeed, but Madame Wachner was their companion on more than one long excursion and wherever Madame Wachner went there reigned a kind of jollity and sense of cheer.

      Sylvia wondered if the Comte de Virieu was indeed coming back as he had said he would do. And yet she knew that were he to return now, at once, to his old ways, his family, those who loved him, would have the right to think him incorrigible.

      As is the way with a woman when she loves, Sylvia did not consider herself as a factor affecting his return to Lacville. Nay, she was bitterly hurt that he had not written her a line since he had left.

      And now had come the evening of the day when Count Paul had meant to come back. But M. Polperro

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