"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.