She went to Paris instead." The servant looked at her fixedly, and Sylvia's face became what it seldom was--very forbidding in expression.

She wished this meddling, familiar woman would go away and leave her alone.
"No doubt Madame knows best! One day is like another to me.

I beg Madame's pardon." The Frenchwoman took up her parasol and laid the house key on the table, then, with a "_Bon jour, Madame, et encore merci bien!_" she noisily closed the door behind her.
A moment later, Sylvia, with a sense of relief, found herself in sole possession of the Chalet des Muguets.
* * * * * Even the quietest, the most commonplace house has, as it were, an individuality that sets it apart from other houses.

And even those who would deny that proposition must admit that every inhabited dwelling has its own special nationality.
The Chalet des Muguets was typically French and typically suburban; but where it differed from thousands of houses of the same type, dotted round in the countrysides within easy reach of Paris, was that it was let each year to a different set of tenants.
In Sylvia Bailey's eyes the queer little place lacked all the elements which go to make a home; and, sitting there, in that airless, darkened dining-room, she wondered, not for the first time, why the Wachners chose to live in such a comfortless way.
She glanced round her with distaste.

Everything was not only cheap, but common and tawdry.