Wachner was notoriously forgetful, being ever, according to his wife,
absorbed in his calculations and "systems." But all the same, this
extraordinary lack of good manners on her host's part added to Sylvia's
feeling of strangeness and discomfort.

Indeed, the Wachners were both very unlike their usual selves this
evening. Madame Wachner had suddenly become very serious, her stout red
face was set in rather grim, grave lines; and twice, as Sylvia was eating
the little piece of galantine which had been placed on her plate by L'Ami
Fritz, she looked up and caught her hostess's eyes fixed on her with a
curious, alien scrutiny.

When they had almost finished the meat, Madame Wachner suddenly exclaimed
in French.

"Fritz! You have forgotten to mix the salad! Whatever made you forget
such an important thing? You will find what is necessary in the drawer
behind you."

Monsieur Wachner made no answer. He got up and pulled the drawer of the
buffet open. Taking out of it a wooden spoon and fork, he came back to
the table and began silently mixing the salad.

The two last times Sylvia had been at the Châlet des Muguets, her
host, in deference to her English taste, had put a large admixture of
vinegar in the salad dressing, but this time she saw that he soused the
lettuce-leaves with oil.

At last, "Will you have some salad, Mrs. Bailey?" he said brusquely, and
in English. He spoke English far better than did his wife.