Sylvia told herself with bitter pain, and again the tears sprang to her eyes, that no one in the wide world really cared for her.  Those people who had been going to Switzerland had thrown her over without a thought.  Anna Wolsky, who had spoken as if she really loved her only a day or two ago, and who had made that love her excuse for a somewhat impertinent interference in Sylvia’s private affairs, had left Lacville without even sending her word that she was leaving!

True, she had a new and a delightful friend in Count Paul de Virieu.  But what if Anna had been right?  What if Count Paul were a dangerous friend, or, worse still, only amusing himself at her expense?  True, he had taken her to see his sister; but that, after all, might not mean very much.

Sylvia Bailey went through a very mournful hour.  She felt terribly depressed and unhappy, and at last, though there was still a considerable time to dinner, she went downstairs and out into the garden with a book.

And then, in a moment, everything was changed.  From sad, she became happy; from mournful and self-pitying, full of exquisite content.

Looking up, Sylvia had seen the now familiar figure of Count Paul de Virieu hurrying towards her.

How early he had left Paris!  She had understood that he meant to come back by the last train, or more probably to-morrow morning.

“Paris was so hot, and my sister found that friends of hers were passing through, so I came back earlier than I meant to do,” he said a little lamely; and then, “Is anything the matter?”

He looked with quick, anxious concern into her pale face and red-lidded eyes.  “Did you have a bad night at the tables?”

Sylvia shook her head.

“Something so strange—­so unexpected—­has happened.”  Her mouth quivered.  “Anna Wolsky has left Lacville!”

“Left Lacville?” Count Paul repeated, in almost as incredulous a tone as that in which Sylvia herself had said the words when the news had been first brought her.  “Have you and she quarrelled, Mrs. Bailey?  You permit?” He waited till she looked up and said listlessly, “Yes, please do,” before lighting his cigarette.

“Quarrelled?  Oh, no!  She has simply gone away without telling me!”

The Comte de Virieu looked surprised, but not particularly sorry.

“That’s very strange,” he said.  “I should have thought your friend was not likely to leave Lacville for many weeks to come.”

His acute French mind had already glanced at all the sides of the situation, and he was surprised at the mixed feelings which filled his heart.  With the Polish woman gone, his young English friend was not likely to stay on at such a place as Lacville alone.

“But where has Madame Wolsky gone?” he asked quickly.  “And why has she left?  Surely she is coming back?” (Sylvia could certainly stay on a few days alone at Lacville, if her friend was coming back.)