"I suppose no one lives here in the winter!" said Sylvia suddenly.
She had noticed, for in some ways she was very observant though in other
ways strangely unseeing, that all the flowers were of the bedding-out
varieties; there were luxuriant creepers, but not a single garden that
she passed had that indefinable look of being an old or a well-tended
garden.
"In the winter? Why, in the winter Lacville is an absolute desert," said
Anna laughing. "You see, the Casino only has a summer Concession; it
cannot open till April 15. Of course there are people who will tell you
that Lacville is the plague-pit of Paris, but that's all nonsense!
Lacville is neither better nor worse than other towns near the capital!"
The carriage had now drawn up before a large, plain, white house, across
which was painted in huge, black letters, "Hotel-Pension Malfait."
"This is the place I have found!" exclaimed Anna. "Would you care to come
in and see the room I've engaged from next Monday week?"
Sylvia followed her into the house with curiosity and interest. Somehow
she did not like the Pension Malfait, though it was clear that it had
once been a handsome private mansion standing in large grounds of its
own.
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