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.
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!
