ly surprised. "Why, they seem to me to be
the most good-natured, commonplace people in the world, and then they're
so fond of one another!"

"I grant you that," he said. "I quite agree that that ugly old woman is
very fond of her 'Ami Fritz'--but I do not know if he returns the
compliment!"

Sylvia looked pained, nay more, shocked.

"I suppose French husbands only like their wives when they are young and
pretty," she said slowly.

"Another of the many injustices you are always heaping on my poor
country," the Count protested lightly. "But I confess I deserved it this
time! Joking apart, I think 'L'Ami Fritz' is very fond of his"--he
hesitated, then ended his sentence with "Old Dutch!"

Sylvia could not help smiling.

"It is too bad of you," she exclaimed, "to talk like that! The Wachners
are very nice people, and I won't allow you to say anything against
them!"

Somehow they were friends again. His next words proved it.

"I will not say anything against the Wachners this afternoon. In fact,
if you will allow me to do so, I will escort you part of the way."

And he was even better than his word, for he went on with Sylvia till
they were actually within sight of the little, isolated villa where the
Wachners lived.

There, woman-like, she made an effort to persuade him to go in with her.

"Do come," she said urgently. "Madame Wachner would be so pleased! She
was saying the other day that you had never been to their house."

But Count Paul smilingly shook his head.

"I have no intention of ever going there," he said deliberately. "You see
I do not like them! I suppose--I hope"--he looked again straight into
Sylvia Bailey's ingenuous blue eyes--"that the Wachners have never tried
to borrow money of you?"

"Never!" she cried, blushing violently. "Never, Count Paul! Your dislike
of my poor friends makes you unjust--it really does."

"It does! It does! I beg their pardon and yours. I was foolish, nay, far
worse, indiscreet, to ask you this question. I regret I did so. Accept my
apology."

She looked at him to see if he was sincere. His face was very grave; and
she looked at him with perplexed, unhappy eyes.

"Oh, don't say that!" she said. "Why should you mind saying anything to
me?"

But the Comte de Virieu was both vexed and angry with himself.

"It is always folly to interfere in anyone else's affairs," he muttered.
"But I have this excuse--I happen to know that last week, or rather ten
days ago, the