And as he made no answer she went on, as if on the defensive.

“The Comte de Virieu has to go away to the funeral of his godmother.  I am sorry, for I should have liked you to have become friends with him.  He was at school in England—­that is why he speaks English so well.”

While they were enjoying the excellent luncheon prepared for them by M. Polperro, Chester was uncomfortably aware that the Count, sitting at his solitary meal at another table, could, should he care to do so, overhear every word the other two were saying.

But Paul de Virieu did not look across or talk as an Englishman would probably have done had he been on familiar terms with a fellow-guest in an hotel.  Instead he devoted himself, in the intervals of the meal, to reading a paper.  But now and again Chester, glancing across, could see the other man’s eyes fixed on himself with a penetrating, thoughtful look.  What did this Frenchman mean by staring at him like that?

As for Sylvia, she was obviously ill at ease.  She talked quickly, rather disconnectedly, of the many things appertaining to her life at home, in Market Dalling, which she had in common with the English lawyer.  She only touched on the delightful time she had had in Paris, and she said nothing of Lacville.

Long before the others had finished, Count Paul got up; before leaving the dining-room, he turned and bowed ceremoniously to Sylvia and her companion.  With his disappearance it seemed to Chester that Sylvia at once became her natural, simple, eager, happy self.  She talked less, she listened more, and at last Chester began to enjoy his holiday.

They went out again into the garden, and the wide lawn, with its shaded spaces of deep green, was a delicious place in which to spend a quiet, idle hour.  They sat down and drank their coffee under one of the cedars of Lebanon.

“This is a very delightful, curious kind of hotel,” he said at last.  “And I confess that now I understand why you like Lacville.  But I do wonder a little, Sylvia”—­he looked at her gravely—­“that you enjoy going to that Casino.”

“You see, there’s so very little else to do here!” she exclaimed, deprecatingly.  “And then, after all, Bill, I don’t see what harm there is in risking one’s money if one can afford to do so!”

He shook his head at her—­playfully, but seriously too.  “Don’t you?” he asked dryly.

“Why, there’s Madame Wachner,” said Sylvia suddenly, and Chester thought there was a little touch of relief in her voice.

“Madame Wachner?” And then the Englishman, gazing at the stout, squat figure which was waddling along the grass towards them, remembered.

This was the good lady who had been so kind to him the night before; nay, who had actually offered to give him a bed if the Pension Malfait had been closed.

“We ’ave lunched in the town,” she said, partly addressing Chester, “and so I thought I would come and ask you, Madame Sylvia, whether you and your friend will come to tea at the Villa des Muguets to-day?” She fixed her bright little eyes on Sylvia’s face.