And Sylvia sat up in bed relieved of her nightmare.

It was eight o'clock! She had overslept herself.

Felicie was bringing in her tea, and on the tray lay a letter addressed in a handwriting Sylvia did not know, and on which was a French stamp.
She turned the pale-grey envelope over doubtfully, wondering if it was really meant for her.

But yes--of that there could be no doubt, for it was addressed, "Madame Bailey, Villa du Lac, Lacville-les-Bains." She opened it to find that the note contained a gracefully-worded invitation to dejeuner for the next day, and the signature ran--"Marie-Anne d'Eglemont." Why, it must be Paul de Virieu's sister! How very kind of her, and--and how very kind of _him_.
The letter must have been actually written when Count Paul was in Paris with his sister--and yet, when they had passed one another the evening before, he had bowed as distantly, as coldly, as he might have done to the most casual of acquaintances.
Sylvia got up, filled with a tumult of excited feeling which this simple invitation to luncheon scarcely warranted.
But Paul de Virieu came in from his ride also eager, excited, smiling.
"Have you received a note from my sister ?" he asked, hurrying towards her in the dining-room which they now had to themselves each morning.

"When I told her how you and I had become"-- he hesitated a moment, and then added the words, "good friends, she said how much she would like to meet you.