It will be what you in England call 'a lark'! And I do not see why I should not give myself so cheap a lark as a five-franc lark!" "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 Hotel 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 Hotel 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 Hotel de l'Horloge.
Only a Frenchman would have given a second look at the Polish lady while Sylvia was by, but a Frenchman, being both a philosopher and a logician by nature, is very apt to content himself with the second-best when he knows the best is not for him.
The two friends were in entire contrast to one another.

Madame Wolsky was tall, dark, almost swarthy; there was a look of rather haughty pride and reserve on her strong-featured face.

She dressed extremely plainly, the only ornament ever worn by her being a small gold horseshoe, in the centre of which was treasured--so, not long ago, she had confided to Sylvia, who had been at once horrified and thrilled--a piece of the rope with which a man had hanged himself at Monte Carlo two years before! For Madame Wolsky--and she made no secret of the fact to her new friend--was a gambler.
Anna Wolsky was never really happy, she did not feel more than half alive, when away from the green cloth.