As Sylvia went slowly and wearily up to her room a sudden horror of
Lacville swept over her excited brain.

For the first time since she had been in the Villa du Lac, she locked the
door of her bed room and sat down in the darkness.

She was overwhelmed with feelings of humiliation and pain. She told
herself with bitter self-scorn that Paul de Virieu cared nothing for her.
If he had cared ever so little he surely would never have done what he
had done to-night?

But such thoughts were futile, and soon she rose and turned on the
electric light. Then she sat down at a little writing-table which had
been thoughtfully provided for her by M. Polperro, and hurriedly, with
feverish eagerness, wrote a note.

Dear Count de Virieu--

I am very tired to-night, and I do not feel as if I should be well
enough to ride to-morrow.--Yours sincerely,

Sylvia Bailey.

That was all, but it was enough. Hitherto she had evidently been--hateful
thought--what the matrons of Market Dalling called "coming on" in her
manner to Count Paul; henceforth she would be cold and distant to him.

She put her note into an envelope, addressed it, and went downstairs
again. It was very late, but M. Polperro was still up. The landlord never