This evening the bare dining-room she had thought so ugly wore an air of festivity.  There were flowers on the round table and on the buffet, but, to her surprise, a piece of oilcloth now hid the parquet floor.  This puzzled Sylvia, as such trifling little matters of fact often puzzle a fresh young mind.  Surely the oilcloth had not been there on her last visit to the villa?  She remembered clearly the unpolished parquet floor.

Thanks to the hostess and to Sylvia herself, supper was a bright, merry meal.  There was a variety of cold meats, some fine fruit, and a plate of dainty pastry.

They all waited on one another, though Madame Wachner insisted on doing most of the work.  But L’Ami Fritz, for once looking cheerful and eager, mixed the salad, putting in even more vinegar than oil, as Mrs. Bailey laughingly confessed that she hated olive oil!

After they had eaten their appetising little meal, the host went off into the kitchen where Sylvia had had tea on her first visit to the Chalet, and there he made the most excellent coffee for them all, and even Mrs. Bailey, who was treated as the guest of honour, though she knew that coffee was not good for her, was tempted into taking some.

One thing, however, rather dashed her pleasure in the entertainment.

Madame Wachner, forgetting for once her usual tact, suddenly made a violent attack on the Comte de Virieu.

They were all talking of the habitues of the Casino:  “The only one I do not like,” she exclaimed, in French, “is that Count—­if indeed Count he be?  He is so arrogant, so proud, so rude!  We have known him for years, have L’Ami Fritz and I, for we are always running across him at Monte Carlo and other places.  But no, each time we meet he looks at us as if he was a fish.  He does not even nod!”

“When the Comte de Virieu is actually playing, he does not know that other people exist,” said Anna Wolsky, slowly.

She had looked across at Sylvia and noticed her English friend’s blush and look of embarrassment.  “I used to watch him two years ago at Monte Carlo, and I have never seen a man more absorbed in his play.”

“That is no excuse!” cried Madame Wachner, scornfully.  “Besides, that is only half the truth.  He is ashamed of the way he is spending his life, and he hates the people who see him doing it!  It is shameful to be so idle.  A strong young man doing nothing, living on charity, so they say!  And he despises all those who do what he himself is not ashamed to do.”

And Sylvia, looking across at her, said to herself with a heavy sigh that this was true.  Madame Wachner had summed up Count Paul very accurately.

At last there came the sound of a carriage in the quiet lane outside.

“Fritz!  Go and see if that is the carriage I ordered to come here at nine o’clock,” said his wife sharply; and then, as he got up silently to obey her, she followed him out into the passage, and Sylvia, who had very quick ears, heard her say, in low, vehement tones, “I work and work and work, but you do nothing!  Do try and help me—­it is for your sake I am taking all this trouble!”