Three Weeks | Page 5

tasted her claret. Yes, it was claret, he felt sure, and probably wonderful
claret at that. Confound her! Paul turned to the wine list. What could it
be? Château Latour at fifteen francs? Château Margaux, or Château
Lafite at twenty?--or possibly it was not here at all, and was special,
too--like the roses and the attention. He called his waiter and ordered
some port--he felt he could not drink another drop of his modest St.
Estèphe!
All this time the lady had never once looked at him; indeed, except that
one occasion when she had lifted her head to examine the wine with the
light through it, he had not seen her raise her eyes, and then the glass
had been between himself and her. The white lids with their heavy
lashes began to irritate him. What colour could they be? those eyes
underneath. They were not very large, that was certain--probably black,
too, like her hair. Little black eyes! That was ugly enough, surely! And
he hated heavy black hair growing in those unusual great waves.
Women's hair should be light and fluffy and fuzzy, and kept tidy in a
net--like Isabella's. This looked so thick--enough to strangle one, if she
twisted it round one's throat. What strange ideas were those coming
into his head? Why should she think of twisting her hair round a man's
throat? It must be the port mounting to his brain, he decided--he was
not given to speculating in this way about women.
What would she eat next? And why did it interest him what she ate or
did not eat? The maître d'hôtel again appeared with a dish of
marvellous-looking nectarines. The waiter now handed the dignified
servant the finger-bowl, into which he poured rose-water. Paul could
just distinguish the scent of it, and then he noticed the lady's hands. Yes,

they at least were faultless; he could not cavil at them; slender and
white, with that transparent whiteness like mother-of-pearl. And what
pink nails! And how polished! Isabella's hands--but he refused to think
of them.
By this time he was conscious of an absorbing interest thrilling his
whole being--disapproving irritated interest.
The maître d'hôtel now removed the claret, out of which the lady had
only drunk one glass.
(What waste! thought Paul.)
And then he returned with a strange-looking bottle, and this time the
dignified servant poured the brilliant golden fluid into a tiny
liqueur-glass. What could it be? Paul was familiar with most liqueurs.
Had he not dined at every restaurant in London, and supped with houris
who adored crême de menthe? But this was none he knew. He had
heard of Tokay--Imperial Tokay--could it be that? And where did she
get it? And who the devil was the woman, anyway?
She peeled the nectarine leisurely--she seemed to enjoy it more than all
the rest of her dinner. And what could that expression mean on her face?
Inscrutable--cynical was it? No--absorbed. As absolutely unconscious
of self and others as if she had been alone in the room. What could she
be thinking of never to worry to look about her?
He began now to notice her throat, it was rounded and intensely white,
through the transparent black stuff. She had no strings of pearls or
jewels on--unless--yes, that was a great sapphire gleaming from the
folds of gauze on her neck. Not surrounded by diamonds like ordinary
brooches, but just a big single stone so dark and splendid it seemed
almost black. There was another on her hand, and yet others in her ears.
Her ears were not anything so very wonderful! Not so very! Isabella's
were quite as good--and this thought comforted him a little. As far as
he could see beyond the roses and the table she was a slender woman,
and he had not noticed on her entrance if she were tall or short. He

could not say why he felt she must be well over thirty--there was not a
line or wrinkle on her face--not even the slight nip in under the chin, or
the tell-tale strain beside the ears.
She was certainly not pretty, certainly not. Well shaped--yes--and
graceful as far as he could judge; but pretty--a thousand times No!
Then the speculation as to her nationality began. French? assuredly not.
English? ridiculous! Equally so German. Italian? perhaps. Russian?
possibly. Hungarian? probably.
Paul had drunk his third glass of port and was beginning his fourth.
This was far more than his usual limit. Paul was, as a rule, an
abstemious young man. Why he should have deliberately sat and drank
that night he never knew. His dinner had been moderate--distinctly
moderate--and he had watched a refined feast of Lucullus partaken of
by a woman who only tasted each plat!
"I wonder what she will have to pay for