Madame Wachner also showed the most sympathetic interest in Sylvia and Sylvia’s past life.  Soon the Englishwoman found herself telling her new acquaintance a great deal about her childhood and girlhood—­something even of her brief, not unhappy, married life.  But she shrank back, both mentally and physically, when Madame Wachner carelessly observed, “Ah, but soon you will marry again; no doubt you are already engaged?”

“Oh, no!” Sylvia shook her head.

“But you are young and beautiful.  It would be a crime for you not to get married again!” Madame Wachner persisted; and then, “I love beauty,” she cried enthusiastically.  “You did not see me, Madame, last week, but I saw you, and I said to my ’usband, ’There is a very beautiful person come to Lacville, Fritz!’ ’E laughed at me.  ’Now you will be satisfied—­now you will ‘ave something to look at,’ ’e says.  And it is quite true!  When I come back that night I was very sorry to see you not there.  But we will meet often now,” she concluded pleasantly, “for I suppose, Madame, that you too intend to play?”

That was the second time she had asked the question.

“I shall play a little,” said Sylvia, blushing, “but of course I do not want to get into the habit of gambling.”

“No, indeed, that would be terrible!  And then there are not many who can afford to gamble and to lose their good money.”  She looked inquiringly at Sylvia.  “But, there,” she sighed—­her fat face became very grave—­“it is extraordinary ’ow some people manage to get money—­I mean those ’oo are determined to play!”

And then, changing the subject, Madame Wachner suddenly began to tell her new acquaintance all about the tragic death by drowning of her and her husband’s friend at Aix-les-Bains the year before.  She now spoke in French, but with a peculiar guttural accent.

“I never talk of it before Fritz,” she said quickly, “but, of course, we both often think of it still.  Oh, it was a terrible thing!  We were devoted to this young Russian friend of ours.  He and Fritz worked an excellent system together—­the best Fritz ever invented—­and for a little while they made money.  But his terribly sad death broke our luck”—­she shook her head ominously.

“How did it happen?” said Sylvia sympathetically.

And then Madame Wachner once again broke into her h-less English.

“They went together in a boat on Lake Bourget—­it is a real lake, that lake, not like the little fishpond ’ere.  A storm came on, and the boat upset.  Fritz did his best to save the unfortunate one, but ’e could not swim.  You can imagine my sensations?  I was in a summer-’ouse, trembling with fright.  Thunder, lightning, rain, storm, all round!  Suddenly I see Fritz, pale as death, wet through, totter up the path from the lake.  ‘Where is Sasha?’ I shriek out to ’im.  And ’e shake ’is ’ead despairingly—­Sasha was in the lake!”

The speaker stared before her with a look of vivid terror on her face.  It was almost as if she saw the scene she was describing—­nay, as if she saw the pale, dead face of the drowned man.  It gave her companion a cold feeling of fear.