"No," she said. "Not to-night, thank you!"

And Sylvia, smiling, looked across at Madame Wachner, expecting to see in
the older woman's face a humorous appreciation of the fact that L'Ami
Fritz had forgotten her well-known horror of oil.

Mrs. Bailey's dislike of the favourite French salad-dressing ingredient
had long been a joke among the three, nay, among the four, for Anna
Wolsky had been there the last time Sylvia had had supper with the
Wachners. It had been such a merry meal!

To-night no meaning smile met hers; instead she only saw that odd, grave,
considering look on her hostess's face.

Suddenly Madame Wachner held out her plate across the table, and L'Ami
Fritz heaped it up with the oily salad.

Sylvia Bailey's plate was empty, but Monsieur Wachner did not seem
to notice that his guest lacked anything. And at last, to her extreme
astonishment, she suddenly saw him take up one of the two pieces of meat
remaining on the dish, and, leaning across, drop it on his wife's plate.
Then he helped himself to the last remaining morsel.

It was such a trifling thing really, and due of course to her host's
singular absent-mindedness; yet, even so, taken in connection with both
the Wachners' silence and odd manner, this lack of the commonest courtesy
struck Sylvia with a kind of fear--with fear and with pain. She felt so
hurt that the tears came into her eyes.