“We come in May, and we may stay till October,” said Madame Wachner, still speaking in a satisfied tone.  “I made a bargain with a woman from the town.  She comes each morning, cooks what I want, and does the ’ousework.  Often we ’ave our dejeuner out and dine at ’ome, or we dine close to the Casino—­just as we choose.  Food is so dear in France, it makes little difference whether we stay at ’ome or not for meals.”

They were now close to the chocolate-coloured door of the Chalet, and Madame Wachner, to Sylvia Bailey’s surprise and amusement, lifted a corner of the shabby outside mat, and took from under it a key.  With it she opened the door.  “Walk in,” she said familiarly, “and welcome, Madame, to my ’ome!”

Sylvia found herself in a bare little hall, so bare indeed that there was not even a hat and umbrella stand there.

Her hostess walked past her and opened a door which gave into a darkened room.

“This is our dining-room,” she said proudly.  “Walk in, Madame.  It is ’ere we had better ’ave tea, perhaps.”

Sylvia followed her.  How dark, and how very hot it was in here!  She could see absolutely nothing for some moments, for she was blinded by the sudden change from the bright light of the hall to the dim twilight of the closely-shuttered room.

Then gradually she began to see everything—­or rather the little there was to be seen—­and she felt surprised, and a little disappointed.

The dining-room was more than plainly furnished; it was positively ugly.

The furniture consisted of a round table standing on an unpolished parquet floor, of six cane chairs set against the wall, and of a walnut-wood buffet, on the shelves of which stood no plates, or ornaments of any description.  The walls were distempered a reddish-pink colour, and here and there the colour had run in streaky patches.

“Is it not charming?” exclaimed Madame Wachner.  “And now I will show you our pretty little salon!”

Sylvia followed her out into the hall, and so to the left into the short passage which ran down the centre of the tiny house.

The drawing-room of the Chalet des Muguets was a little larger than the dining-room, but it was equally bare of anything pretty or even convenient.  There was a small sofa, covered with cheap tapestry, and four uncomfortable-looking chairs to match; on the sham marble mantelpiece stood a gilt and glass clock and two chandeliers.  There was not a book, not a paper, not a flower.

Both rooms gave Sylvia a strange impression that they were very little lived in.  But then, of course, the Wachners were very little at home.

“And now I will get tea,” said Madame Wachner triumphantly.

“Will you not let me help you?” asked Sylvia, timidly.  “I love making tea—­every Englishwoman loves making tea.”  She had no wish to be left in this dull, ugly little drawing-room by herself.

“Oh, but your pretty dress!  Would it not get ’urt in the kitchen?” cried Madame Wachner deprecatingly.