“The Villa du Lac once belonged to the Marquis de Para, who was gentleman-in-waiting to the Empress Eugenie.  He and his family lived on here long after the war, in fact”—­he lowered his voice—­“till the Concession was granted to the Casino.  You know what I mean?  The Gambling Concession.  Since then the world of Lacville has become rather mixed, as I have reason to know, for my wife and I have lived here fifteen years.  The Marquis de Para sold his charming villa.  He was driven away, like so many other excellent people.  So the Villa du Lac is now an hotel, where doubtless Madame has friends?”

Sylvia bowed and thanked him.  Yes, the Villa du Lac even now looked like a delightful and well-kept private house, rather than like an hotel.  It stood some way back—­behind high wrought-steel and gilt gates—­from the sandy road which lay between it and the lake, and the stone-paved courtyard was edged with a line of green tubs, containing orange trees.

Sylvia walked through the gates, which stood hospitably open, and when she was half-way up the horseshoe stone-staircase which led to the front door, a man, dressed in the white dress of a French chef, and bearing an almost ludicrous resemblance to M. Girard, came hurrying out.

“Madame Bailey?” he exclaimed joyously, and bowing very low.  “Have I the honour of greeting Madame Bailey?  My cousin telephoned to me that you might be coming, Madame, to dejeuner!” And as Sylvia smiled in assent:  “I am delighted, I am honoured, by the visit of Madame Bailey!”

Sylvia laughed outright.  She really could not help it!  It was very nice and thoughtful of M. Girard to have telephoned to his cousin.  But how dreadful it would have been if she had gone straight back to Paris from the station.  All these kind people would have had their trouble for nothing.

M. Polperro was a shrewd Southerner, and he had had the sense to make but few alterations to the Villa du Lac.  It therefore retained something of the grand air it had worn in the days when it had been the property of a Court official.  The large, cool, circular hall into which the hotel-keeper ushered Sylvia was charming, as were the long, finely decorated reception-rooms on either side.

The dining-room, filled with small oval tables, to which M. Polperro next led his honoured guest, had been built out since the house had become an hotel.  It commanded a view of the lake on the one side, and of the large, shady garden of the villa on the other.

“I have arranged for Madame a little table in what we call the lake window,” observed M. Polperro.  “As yet Lacville is very empty.  Paris is so delightful,” he sighed, “but very soon, when the heat comes, Lacville will be quite full,” he smiled joyously.  “I myself have a very choice clientele—­I do not deal with rubbish.”  He drew himself up proudly.  “My clients come back to me year after year.  Already I have six visitors, and in ten days my pension will be au grand complet.  It is quality, not quantity, that I desire, Madame.  If ever you know anyone who wishes to come to Lacville you may safely recommend them—­I say it with my hands on my heart,” and he suited his action to his words—­“to the Villa du Lac.”