He turned on her quickly: “Then do you ride every morning with this Frenchman?” he asked quietly.
“Almost every morning,” she answered. “His sister lent me a horse and a riding habit. It was very kind of her,” she raised her voice, and blushed deeply in the rushing wind.
Chester felt his mind suddenly fill with angry suspicion. Was it possible that this Comte de Virieu, this man of whom that nice Madame Wachner had spoken with such scorn as a confirmed gambler, was “making up” to Sylvia? It was a monstrous idea—but Chester, being a solicitor, knew only too well that in the matter of marriage the most monstrous and disastrous things are not only always possible but sometimes probable. Chester believed that all Frenchmen regard marriage as a matter of business. To such a man as this Count, Mrs. Bailey’s fortune would be a godsend.
“Sylvia!” he exclaimed, in a low, stern voice.
He turned round and looked at her. She was staring straight before her; the colour had faded from her cheek; she looked pale and tired.
“Sylvia!” he repeated. “Listen to me, and—and don’t be offended.”
She glanced quickly at the man sitting by her side. His voice was charged with emotion, with anger.
“Don’t be angry with me,” he repeated. “If my suspicion, my fear, is unfounded, I beg your pardon with all my heart.”
Sylvia got up and touched the driver on the shoulder. “Please slow down,” she said in French, “we are going faster than I like.”
Then she sank back in her seat. “Yes, Bill! What is it you wish to ask me? I couldn’t hear you properly. We were going too fast.”
“Is it possible, is it conceivable, that you are thinking of marrying this Frenchman?”
“No,” said Sylvia, very quietly, “I am not thinking of marrying the Comte de Virieu. But he is my friend. I—I like and respect him. No, Bill, you need not fear that the Comte de Virieu will ever ask me to become his wife.”
“But if he did?” asked Chester, hoarsely.
“You have no right to ask me such a question,” she answered, passionately; and then, after a pause, she added, in a low voice: “But if he did, I should say no, Bill.”
Her eyes were full of tears. As for Chester, he felt a variety of conflicting emotions, of which perhaps the strongest was a determination that if he could not get her no one else should do so. This—this damned French gambler had touched Sylvia’s kind heart. Surely she couldn’t care for a man she had only known a month, and such an affected, dandified fellow, too?
It was with relief that they both became aware a few moments later that they were on the outskirts of Lacville.
“Here is the Châlet des Muguets!” exclaimed Sylvia. “Isn’t it a funny little place?”
The English lawyer stared at the bright pink building; with curiosity and amusement. It was indeed a funny little place, this brick-built bungalow, so fantastically and, to his British eyes, so ridiculously decorated with blue china lozenges, on which were painted giant lilies of the valley.
But he had not long to look, for as the car drew up before the white gate Madame Wachner’s short, broad figure came hurrying down the path.
She opened the gate, and with boisterous heartiness welcomed Chester and Sylvia into the neglected garden.
Chester looked round him with an involuntary surprise. The Wachners’ home was entirely unlike what he had expected to find it. He had thought to see one of those trim, neat little villas surrounded by gay, exquisitely tended little gardens which are the pride of the Parisian suburban dweller.
Madame Wachner caught his glance, and the thought crossed her mind uncomfortably that she had perhaps made a mistake, a serious mistake, in asking this priggish-looking Englishman to come to the Châlet des Muguets. He evidently did not like the look of the place.
“You wonder to see our garden so untidy,” she exclaimed, regretfully. “Well, it is the owner’s fault, not ours! You would not believe such a thing of a Frenchman, but ’e actually made us promise that we would do nothing—no, nothing at all, to ’is garden. ’E spoke of sending a man once a week to see after it, but no, ’e never did so.”
“I have often wondered,” broke in Sylvia frankly, “why you allowed your garden to get into such a state, but now, of course, I understand. What a very odd person your landlord must be, Madame Wachner! It might be such a delightful place if kept in good order. But I’m glad you have had the grass cut. I remember the first time I came here the grass was tremendously high, both in front and behind the house. Yesterday I saw that you have had it cut.”
“Yes,” said Madame Wachner, glancing at her, “yes, we had the grass cut a few days ago. Fritz insisted on it.”
“If it had been as high as it was the first time I came here, I could never have made my way through it to the delightful little wood that lies over there, behind the châlet,” went on Sylvia. “I don’t think I told you that I went over there yesterday and waited a while, hoping that you would come back.”
“You went into the wood!” echoed Madame Wachner in a startled tone. “You should not have done that,” she shook her head gravely. “We are forbidden to go into the wood. We ’ave never gone into the wood.”
L’Ami Fritz stood waiting for his visitors in the narrow doorway. He looked more good-tempered than usual, and as they walked in he chatted pleasantly to Chester.
“This way,” he said, importantly. “Do not trouble to go into the salon, Madame! We shall have tea here, of course.”
And Sylvia Bailey was amused, as well as rather touched, to see the preparations which had been made in the little dining-room for the entertainment of Bill Chester and of herself.
In the middle of the round table which had looked
