As she saw herself reflected in one of the long mirrors let into the wall, Sylvia blushed and half-smiled.  She had suddenly remembered the young man who had behaved, on that first visit of hers to the Villa du Lac, so much more discreetly than had all the other Frenchmen with whom she had been brought in temporary contact.  She was familiar, through newspaper paragraphs, with the name of his brother-in-law, the French duke who had won the Derby.  The Duc d’Eglemont, that was the racing French duke who had carried off the blue riband of the British Turf—­the other name was harder to remember—­then it came to her.  Count Paul de Virieu.  How kind and courteous he had been to her and her friend in the Club.  She remembered him very vividly.  Yes, though not exactly good-looking, he had fine eyes, and a clever, if not a very happy, face.

And then, on going down the broad, shallow staircase, and so through the large, oval hall into the dining-room, Sylvia Bailey saw that the man of whom she had been thinking was there, sitting very near to where she herself was now told that she was to sit.  In the week that had gone by since Sylvia had paid her first visit to Lacville, the Villa had gradually filled up with people eager, like herself, to escape from the heat and dust of Paris, and the pleasant little table by the window had been appropriated by someone else.

When the young Englishwoman came into the dining-room, the Comte de Virieu got up from his chair, and clicking his heels together, bowed low and gravely.

She had never seen a man do that before.  And it looked so funny!  Sylvia felt inclined to burst out laughing.  But all she did was to nod gravely, and the Count, sitting down, took no further apparent notice of her.

There were a good many people in the large room; parties of two, three, and four, talking merrily together, as is the way with French people at their meals.  No one was alone save the Comte de Virieu and herself.  Sylvia wondered if he felt as lonely as she did.

Towards the end of dinner the host came in and beamed on his guests; then he walked across to where Mrs. Bailey sat by herself.  “I hope Madame is satisfied with her dinner,” he said pleasantly.  “Madame must always tell me if there is anything she does not like.”

He called the youngest of the three waitresses.  “Felicie!  You must look very well after Madame,” he said solemnly.  “Make her comfortable, attend to her slightest wish”—­and then he chuckled—­“This is my niece,” he said, “a very good girl!  She is our adopted daughter.  Madame will only have to ask her for anything she wants.”

Sylvia felt much happier, and no longer lonely.  It was all rather absurd—­but it was all very pleasant!  She had never met an hotel keeper like little Polperro, one at once so familiar and so inoffensive in manner.

“Thank you so much,” she said, “but I am more than comfortable!  And after dinner I shall go to the Casino to meet my friend, Madame Wolsky.”