The Wachners' home was entirely unlike what he had expected to find it.

He had thought to see one of those trim, neat little villas surrounded by gay, exquisitely tended little gardens which are the pride of the Parisian suburban dweller.
Madame Wachner caught his glance, and the thought crossed her mind uncomfortably that she had perhaps made a mistake, a serious mistake, in asking this priggish-looking Englishman to come to the Chalet des Muguets.

He evidently did not like the look of the place.
"You wonder to see our garden so untidy," she exclaimed, regretfully.
"Well, it is the owner's fault, not ours! You would not believe such a thing of a Frenchman, but 'e actually made us promise that we would do nothing--no, nothing at all, to 'is garden.

'E spoke of sending a man once a week to see after it, but no, 'e never did so." "I have often wondered," broke in Sylvia frankly, "why you allowed your garden to get into such a state, but now, of course, I understand.

What a very odd person your landlord must be, Madame Wachner! It might be such a delightful place if kept in good order.