t L'Ami
Fritz had forgotten her well-known horror of oil.

Mrs. Bailey's dislike of the favourite French salad-dressing ingredient
had long been a joke among the three, nay, among the four, for Anna
Wolsky had been there the last time Sylvia had had supper with the
Wachners. It had been such a merry meal!

To-night no meaning smile met hers; instead she only saw that odd, grave,
considering look on her hostess's face.

Suddenly Madame Wachner held out her plate across the table, and L'Ami
Fritz heaped it up with the oily salad.

Sylvia Bailey's plate was empty, but Monsieur Wachner did not seem
to notice that his guest lacked anything. And at last, to her extreme
astonishment, she suddenly saw him take up one of the two pieces of meat
remaining on the dish, and, leaning across, drop it on his wife's plate.
Then he helped himself to the last remaining morsel.

It was such a trifling thing really, and due of course to her host's
singular absent-mindedness; yet, even so, taken in connection with both
the Wachners' silence and odd manner, this lack of the commonest courtesy
struck Sylvia with a kind of fear--with fear and with pain. She felt so
hurt that the tears came into her eyes.

There was a long moment's pause--then,

"Do you not feel well," asked Madame Wachner harshly, "or are you
grieving for the Comte de Virieu?"

Her voice had become guttural, full of coarse and cruel malice, and even
as she spoke she went on eating voraciously.

Sylvia Bailey pushed her chair back, and rose to her feet.

"I should like to go home now," she said quietly, "for it is getting
late,"--her voice shook a little. She was desperately afraid of
disgracing herself by a childish outburst of tears. "I can make my
way back quite well without Monsieur Wachner's escort."

She saw her host shrug his shoulders. He made a grimace at his wife; it
expressed annoyance, nay, more, extreme disapproval.

Madame Wachner also got up. She wiped her mouth with her napkin, and then
laid her hand on Sylvia's shoulder.

"Come, come," she exclaimed, and this time she spoke quite kindly, "you
must not be cross with me, dear friend! I was only laughing, I was only
what you call in England 'teasing.' The truth is I am very vexed and
upset that our supper is not better. I told that fool Frenchwoman to get
in something really nice, and she disobeyed me! I was 'ungry, too, for I
'ad no dejeuner to-day, and that makes one 'ollow, does it not? But now
L