He told himself angrily that this kind of thing could not go on. The
sleepless nights made him ill--he who never was ill; also he was losing
precious days of his short holiday, while doing no good to himself and no
good to Sylvia.

Sending for the hotel-keeper, he curtly told him that he meant to leave
Lacville that evening.

M. Malfait expressed much sorrow and regret. Was M'sieur not comfortable?
Was there anything he could do to prolong his English guest's stay?

No, M'sieur had every reason to be satisfied, but--but had M. Malfait
ever had any complaints of noises in the bed-room occupied by his English
guest?

The Frenchman's surprise and discomfiture seemed quite sincere; but
Chester, looking into his face, suspected that the wondering protests,
the assertion that this particular bed-room was the quietest in the
house, were not sincere. In this, however he wronged poor M. Malfait.

Chester went upstairs and packed. There seemed to be a kind of finality
in the act. If she knew he was ready to start that night, Sylvia would
not be able to persuade him to stay on, as she probably would try to do.

At the Villa du Lac he was greeted with, "Madame Bailey is in the garden
with the Comte de Virieu"--and he thought he saw a twinkle in merry
little M. Polperro's eyes.

Poor Sylvia! Poor, foolish, wilful Sylvia! Was it conceivable that after
what she had seen the night before she still liked, she still respected,