For the moment they were enemies, and it was the enemy in Sylvia that next spoke.  “I think I shall go and have tea with the Wachners.  They never go to the Casino on Saturday afternoons.”

A heavy cloud came over Count Paul’s face.

“I can’t think what you see to like in that vulgar old couple,” he exclaimed irritably.  “To me there is something”—­he hesitated, seeking for an English word which should exactly express the French word “louche”—­“sinister—­that is the word I am looking for—­there is to me something sinister about the Wachners.”

“Sinister?” echoed Sylvia, really surprised.  “Why, they seem to me to be the most good-natured, commonplace people in the world, and then they’re so fond of one another!”

“I grant you that,” he said.  “I quite agree that that ugly old woman is very fond of her ’Ami Fritz’—­but I do not know if he returns the compliment!”

Sylvia looked pained, nay more, shocked.

“I suppose French husbands only like their wives when they are young and pretty,” she said slowly.

“Another of the many injustices you are always heaping on my poor country,” the Count protested lightly.  “But I confess I deserved it this time!  Joking apart, I think ‘L’Ami Fritz’ is very fond of his”—­he hesitated, then ended his sentence with “Old Dutch!”

Sylvia could not help smiling.

“It is too bad of you,” she exclaimed, “to talk like that!  The Wachners are very nice people, and I won’t allow you to say anything against them!”

Somehow they were friends again.  His next words proved it.

“I will not say anything against the Wachners this afternoon.  In fact, if you will allow me to do so, I will escort you part of the way.”

And he was even better than his word, for he went on with Sylvia till they were actually within sight of the little, isolated villa where the Wachners lived.

There, woman-like, she made an effort to persuade him to go in with her.

“Do come,” she said urgently.  “Madame Wachner would be so pleased!  She was saying the other day that you had never been to their house.”

But Count Paul smilingly shook his head.

“I have no intention of ever going there,” he said deliberately.  “You see I do not like them!  I suppose—­I hope”—­he looked again straight into Sylvia Bailey’s ingenuous blue eyes—­“that the Wachners have never tried to borrow money of you?”

“Never!” she cried, blushing violently.  “Never, Count Paul!  Your dislike of my poor friends makes you unjust—­it really does.”

“It does!  It does!  I beg their pardon and yours.  I was foolish, nay, far worse, indiscreet, to ask you this question.  I regret I did so.  Accept my apology.”

She looked at him to see if he was sincere.  His face was very grave; and she looked at him with perplexed, unhappy eyes.

“Oh, don’t say that!” she said.  “Why should you mind saying anything to me?”