The other shrugged her shoulders, "I do not care for scenery--no, not at all!" she exclaimed complacently. The carriage drew up with a jerk before a small white gate set in low, rough, wood palings. Behind the palings lay a large, straggling, and untidy garden, relieved from absolute ugliness by some high forest trees which had been allowed to remain when the house in the centre of the plot of ground was built. Madame Wachner stepped heavily out of the carriage, and Sylvia followed her, feeling amused and interested. She wondered very much what the inside of the funny little villa she saw before her would be like. In any case, the outside of the Chalet des Muguets was almost ludicrously unlike the English houses to which she was accustomed. Very strange, quaint, and fantastic looked the one-storey building, standing far higher than any bungalow Sylvia had ever seen, in a lawn of high, rank grass. The walls of the Chalet des Muguets were painted bright pink, picked out with sham brown beams, which in their turn were broken at intervals by large blue china lozenges, on which were painted the giant branches of lilies-of-the-valley which gave the villa its inappropriate name! The chocolate-coloured row of shutters were now closed to shut out the heat, for the sun beat down pitilessly on the little house, and the whole place had a curiously deserted, unlived-in appearance. Sylvia secretly wondered how the Wachners could bear to leave the garden, which might have been made so pretty with a little care, in such a state of neglect and untidiness. Even the path leading up to the side of the house, where jutted out a mean-looking door, was covered with weeds. But Madame Wachner was evidently very pleased with her temporary home, and quite satisfied with its surroundings. "It is a pretty 'ouse, is it not?" she asked in English, and smiling broadly. "And only one thousand francs, furnished, for the 'ole season!" Sylvia quickly made a mental calculation. Forty pounds? Yes, she supposed that was very cheap--for Lacville. "We come in May, and we may stay till October," said Madame Wachner, still speaking in a satisfied tone. "I made a bargain with a woman from the town. She comes each morning, cooks what I want, and does the 'ousework. Often we 'ave our dejeuner out and dine at 'ome, or we dine close to the Casino--just as we choose. Food is so dear in France, it makes little difference whether we stay at 'ome or not for meals." They were now close to the chocolate-coloured door of the Chalet, and Madame Wachner, to Sylvia Bailey's surprise and amusement, lifted a corner of the shabby outside mat, and took from under it a key. With it she opened the door. "Walk in," she said familiarly, "and welcome, Madame, to my 'ome!" Sylvia found herself in a bare little hall, so bare indeed that there was not even a hat and umbrella stand there. Her hostess walked past her and opened a door which gave into a darkened room.