There was a long moment's pause--then,

"Do you not feel well," asked Madame Wachner harshly, "or are you
grieving for the Comte de Virieu?"

Her voice had become guttural, full of coarse and cruel malice, and even
as she spoke she went on eating voraciously.

Sylvia Bailey pushed her chair back, and rose to her feet.

"I should like to go home now," she said quietly, "for it is getting
late,"--her voice shook a little. She was desperately afraid of
disgracing herself by a childish outburst of tears. "I can make my
way back quite well without Monsieur Wachner's escort."

She saw her host shrug his shoulders. He made a grimace at his wife; it
expressed annoyance, nay, more, extreme disapproval.

Madame Wachner also got up. She wiped her mouth with her napkin, and then
laid her hand on Sylvia's shoulder.

"Come, come," she exclaimed, and this time she spoke quite kindly, "you
must not be cross with me, dear friend! I was only laughing, I was only
what you call in England 'teasing.' The truth is I am very vexed and
upset that our supper is not better. I told that fool Frenchwoman to get
in something really nice, and she disobeyed me! I was 'ungry, too, for I
'ad no déjeuner to-day, and that makes one 'ollow, does it not? But now
L'Ami Fritz is going to make us some good coffee! After we 'ave 'ad it
you shall go away if so is your wish, but my 'usband will certainly
accompany you--"