gambling
English people are curiously narrow. It was better to be philosophical
about it, like that excellent Frenchwoman in the train, who had not
grudged her husband a little amusement, even if it entailed his losing
what she had described as "hard-earned money."

Though she had to wait nearly half an hour for her meal, the time passed
quickly; and when at last dejeuner was served to her well and deftly by a
pleasant-faced young waitress dressed in Breton costume, each item of the
carefully-prepared meal was delicious. M. Polperro had not been chef to a
Princess for nothing.

Sylvia Bailey was not greedy, but like most healthy people she enjoyed
good food, and she had very seldom tasted quite such good food as that
which was served to her at the Hotel du Lac on this memorable June day.

She had almost finished her luncheon when a fair young man came in and
sat down at a small table situated at the other end of the dining-room,
close to the window overlooking the garden of the Villa du Lac.

CHAPTER IV

As the young man came into the dining-room he glanced over to where Mrs.
Bailey was sitting and then he looked away, and, unfolding his table
napkin, paid no more attention to the only other occupant of the room.

Now this was a very trifling fact, and yet it surprised our young
Englishwoman; she had become accustomed to the way in which Frenchmen, or
perhaps it would be more true to say Parisians, stare at a pretty woman
in the streets, in omnibuses, and in shops. As for the dining-room of the
Hotel de l'Horloge, it always seemed full of eyes when she and Anna
Wolsky were having lunch or dinner there.

Now, for the first time, she found herself close to a Frenchman without
feeling either uncomfortably or amusingly aware of a steady, unwinking
stare. It was quite an odd sensation to find herself thus neglected!

Without actually looking round, Sylvia, out of the corner of her blue
eye, could see this exceptional Frenchman. He was dressed in white
flannels, and he wore rather bright pink socks and a pink tie to match.
He must be, she decided, something of a dandy. Though still a young man,
he was rather bald, and he had a thick fair moustache. He looked bored
and very grave; she could not help wondering why he was staying at
Lacville.

M. Polperro suddenly appeared at the door. "Would M. le Comte prefer
scrambled eggs or an omelette?" he asked obsequiously, and "M. le Comte"
lifted his head and answered