Sylvia made no answer.  She felt she could not trust herself to speak; and there came over her a feeling of intense satisfaction that Anna Wolsky was not staying here with her at the Villa du Lac.

She also made up her mind that next time she entertained Anna she would do so at the restaurant of which the cooking had been so highly commended by Madame Wachner.

The fact that Madame Wolsky thought so ill of the Comte de Virieu made Sylvia feel uncomfortable all through dinner.  But the Count, though he again bowed when the two friends came into the dining-room, did not come over and speak to them, as Sylvia had felt sure he would do this evening.

After dinner he disappeared, and Sylvia took Anna out into the garden.  But she did not show her the potager.  The old kitchen-garden already held for her associations which she did not wish to spoil or even to disturb.

Madame Wolsky, sipping M. Polperro’s excellent coffee, again mentioned the Count.

“I am exceedingly surprised to see him here at Lacville,” she said in a musing voice, “I should have expected him to go to a more chic place.  He always plays in the winter at Monte Carlo.”

Sylvia summoned up courage to protest.

“But, Anna,” she exclaimed, “surely the Comte de Virieu is only doing what a great many other people do!”

Anna laughed good-humouredly.

“I see what you mean,” she said.  “You think it is a case of ’the pot calling the kettle black.’  How excellent are your English proverbs, dear Sylvia!  But no, it is quite different.  Take me.  I have an income, and choose to spend it in gambling.  I might prefer to have a big house, or perhaps I should say a small house, for I am not a very rich woman.  But no, I like play, and I am free to spend my money as I like.  The Comte de Virieu is very differently situated!  He is, so I’ve been told, a clever, cultivated man.  He ought to be working—­doing something for his country’s good.  And then he is so disagreeable!  He makes no friends, no acquaintances.  He always looks as if he was doing something of which he was ashamed.  He never appears gay or satisfied, not even when he is winning—­”

“He does not look as cross as Monsieur Wachner,” said Sylvia, smiling.

“Monsieur Wachner is like me,” said Anna calmly.  “He probably made a fortune in business, and now he and his wife enjoy risking a little money at play.  Why should they not?”

“Madame Wachner told me to-day all about their poor friend who was drowned,” said Sylvia irrelevantly.

“Ah, yes, that was a sad affair!  They were very foolish to become so intimate with him.  Why, they actually had him staying with them at the time!  You see, they had a villa close to the lake-side.  And this young Russian, it appears, was very fond of boating.  It was a mysterious affair, because, oddly enough, he had not been out in the town, or even to the Casino, for four days before the accident happened.  There was a notion among some people that he had committed suicide, but that, I fancy, was not so.  He had won a large sum of money.  Some thought the gold weighed down his body in the water—.  But that is absurd.  It must have been the weeds.”