"Oh, if you really mean to go, I think I will go too!" cried Sylvia,
gaily.

She was beginning to feel less tired, and the thought of a long lonely
afternoon spent indoors and by herself lacked attraction.

Linking her arm through her friend's, she went downstairs and into the
barely furnished dining-room, which was so very unlike an English hotel
dining-room. In this dining-room the wallpaper simulated a vine-covered
trellis, from out of which peeped blue-plumaged birds, and on each little
table, covered by an unbleached table-cloth, stood an oil and vinegar
cruet and a half-bottle of wine.

The Hôtel de l'Horloge was a typical French hotel, and foreigners very
seldom stayed there. Sylvia had been told of the place by the old French
lady who had been her governess, and who had taught her to speak French
exceptionally well.

Several quiet Frenchmen, who had offices in the neighbourhood, were "_en
pension_" at the Hôtel de l'Horloge, and as the two friends came in many
were the steady, speculative glances cast in their direction.

To the average Frenchman every woman is interesting; for every Frenchman
is in love with love, and in each fair stranger he sees the possible
heroine of a romance in which he may play the agreeable part of hero.
So it was that Sylvia Bailey and Anna Wolsky both had their silent
admirers among those who lunched and dined in the narrow green and
white dining-room of the Hôtel de l'Horloge.

Only a Frenchman would have given a second look at the Polish lady while