She was overwhelmed with feelings of humiliation and pain.  She told herself with bitter self-scorn that Paul de Virieu cared nothing for her.  If he had cared ever so little he surely would never have done what he had done to-night?

But such thoughts were futile, and soon she rose and turned on the electric light.  Then she sat down at a little writing-table which had been thoughtfully provided for her by M. Polperro, and hurriedly, with feverish eagerness, wrote a note.

  Dear Count de Virieu—­

  I am very tired to-night, and I do not feel as if I should be well
  enough to ride to-morrow.—­Yours sincerely,

  Sylvia Bailey.

That was all, but it was enough.  Hitherto she had evidently been—­hateful thought—­what the matrons of Market Dalling called “coming on” in her manner to Count Paul; henceforth she would be cold and distant to him.

She put her note into an envelope, addressed it, and went downstairs again.  It was very late, but M. Polperro was still up.  The landlord never went to bed till each one of his clients was safe indoors.

“Will you kindly see that the Comte de Virieu gets this to-night?” she said briefly.  And then, as the little man looked at her with some surprise, “It is to tell the Count that I cannot ride to-morrow morning.  It is late, and I am very tired; sleepy, too, after the long motoring expedition I took this afternoon!” She tried to smile.

M. Polperro bowed.

“Certainly, Madame.  The Count shall have this note the moment he returns from the Casino.  He will not be long now.”

But the promises of Southerners are pie-crust.  Doubtless M. Polperro meant the Count to have the note that night, but he put it aside and forgot all about it.

Sylvia had a broken night, and she was still sleeping heavily when she was wakened by the now familiar sound of the horses being brought into the courtyard.  She jumped out of bed and peeped through an opening in the closed curtains.

It was a beautiful morning.  The waters of the lake dimpled in the sun.  A door opened, and Sylvia heard voices.  Then Count Paul was going riding after all, and by himself?  Sylvia felt a pang of unreasoning anger and regret.

Paul de Virieu and M. Polperro were standing side by side; suddenly she saw the hotel-keeper hand the Count, with a gesture of excuse, the note she had written the night before.  Count Paul read it through, then he put it back in its envelope, and placed it in the breast pocket of his coat.

He did not send the horses away, as Sylvia in her heart had rather hoped he would do, but he said a word to M. Polperro, who ran into the Villa and returned a moment later with something which he handed, with a deferential bow to the Count.

It was a cardcase, and Paul de Virieu scribbled something on a card and gave it to M. Polperro.  A minute later he had ridden out of the gates.