How delightful it all was to Sylvia Bailey!  No wonder her feeling of depression and loneliness vanished.

As she sat down, and looked out of the bay window which commanded the whole length of the gleaming, sun-flecked lake, she told herself that, pleasant as was Paris, Lacville on a hot day was certainly a hundred times pleasanter than Paris.

And the Casino?  Sylvia fixed her blue eyes on the white, fairy-like group of buildings, which were so attractive an addition to the pretty landscape.

Surely one might spend a pleasant time at Lacville and never play for money?  Though she was inclined to feel that in this matter of gambling English people are curiously narrow.  It was better to be philosophical about it, like that excellent Frenchwoman in the train, who had not grudged her husband a little amusement, even if it entailed his losing what she had described as “hard-earned money.”

Though she had to wait nearly half an hour for her meal, the time passed quickly; and when at last dejeuner was served to her well and deftly by a pleasant-faced young waitress dressed in Breton costume, each item of the carefully-prepared meal was delicious.  M. Polperro had not been chef to a Princess for nothing.

Sylvia Bailey was not greedy, but like most healthy people she enjoyed good food, and she had very seldom tasted quite such good food as that which was served to her at the Hotel du Lac on this memorable June day.

She had almost finished her luncheon when a fair young man came in and sat down at a small table situated at the other end of the dining-room, close to the window overlooking the garden of the Villa du Lac.

CHAPTER IV

As the young man came into the dining-room he glanced over to where Mrs. Bailey was sitting and then he looked away, and, unfolding his table napkin, paid no more attention to the only other occupant of the room.

Now this was a very trifling fact, and yet it surprised our young Englishwoman; she had become accustomed to the way in which Frenchmen, or perhaps it would be more true to say Parisians, stare at a pretty woman in the streets, in omnibuses, and in shops.  As for the dining-room of the Hotel de l’Horloge, it always seemed full of eyes when she and Anna Wolsky were having lunch or dinner there.

Now, for the first time, she found herself close to a Frenchman without feeling either uncomfortably or amusingly aware of a steady, unwinking stare.  It was quite an odd sensation to find herself thus neglected!

Without actually looking round, Sylvia, out of the corner of her blue eye, could see this exceptional Frenchman.  He was dressed in white flannels, and he wore rather bright pink socks and a pink tie to match.  He must be, she decided, something of a dandy.  Though still a young man, he was rather bald, and he had a thick fair moustache.  He looked bored and very grave; she could not help wondering why he was staying at Lacville.