Three Weeks | Page 6

it all?" he thought to himself.
"She will probably sign the bill, though, and I shan't see."
But when the lady had finished her nectarine and dipped her slender
fingers in the rose-water she got up--she had not smoked, she could not
be Russian then. Got up and walked towards the door, signing no bill,
and paying no gold.
Paul stared as she passed him--rudely stared--he knew it afterwards and
felt ashamed. However, the lady never so much as noticed him, nor did
she raise her eyes, so that when she had finally disappeared he was still
unaware of their colour or expression.
But what a figure she had! Sinuous, supple, rounded, and yet very
slight.
"She must have the smallest possible bones," Paul said to himself,
"because it looks all curvy and soft, and yet she is as slender as a
gazelle."

She was tall, too, though not six feet--like Isabella!
The waiters and maître d'hôtel all bowed and stood aside as she left,
followed by her elderly, stately, silver-haired servant.
Of course it would have been an easy matter to Paul to find out her
name, and all about her. He would only have had to summon Monsieur
Jacques, and ask any question he pleased. But for some unexplained
reason he would not do this. Instead of which he scowled in front of
him, and finished his fourth glass of port. Then his head swam a little,
and he went outside into the night. The rain had stopped and the sky
was full of stars scattered in its intense blue. It was warm, too, there,
under the clipped trees, Paul hoped he wasn't drunk--such a beastly
thing to do! And not even good port either.
He sat on a bench and smoked a cigar. A strange sense of loneliness
came over him. It seemed as if he were far, far away from any one in
the world he had ever known. A vague feeling of oppression and
coming calamity passed through him, only he was really as yet too
material and thoroughly, solidly English to entertain it, or any other
subtle mental emotion for more than a minute. But he undoubtedly felt
strange to-night; different from what he had ever done before. He
would have said "weird" if he could have thought of the word. The
woman and her sinuous, sensuous black shape filled the space of his
mental vision. Black hair, black hat, black dress--and of course black
eyes. Ah! if he could only know their colour really!
The damp bench where he sat was just under the ivy hanging from the
balustrade of the small terrace belonging to the ground-floor suite at the
end.
There was a silence, very few people passed, frightened no doubt by
the recent rain. He seemed alone in the world.
The wine now began to fire his senses. Why should he remain alone?
He was young and rich and--surely even in Lucerne there must be--.
And then he felt a beast, and looked out on to the lake.

Suddenly his heart seemed to swell with some emotion, a faint scent of
tuberoses filled the air--and from exactly above his head there came a
gentle, tender sigh.
He started violently, and brusquely turned and looked up. Almost
indistinguishable in the deep shadow he saw the woman's face. It
seemed to emerge from a mist of black gauze. And looking down into
his were a pair of eyes--a pair of eyes. For a moment Paul's heart felt as
if it had stopped beating, so wonderful was their effect upon him. They
seemed to draw him--draw something out of him--intoxicate
him--paralyse him. And as he gazed up motionless the woman moved
noiselessly back on to the terrace, and he saw nothing but the night sky
studded with stars.
Had he been dreaming? Had she really bent over the ivy? Was he mad?
Yes--or drunk, because now he had seen the eyes, and yet he did not
know their colour! Were they black, or blue, or grey, or green? He did
not know, he could not think--only they were eyes--eyes--eyes.
The letter to Isabella Waring remained unfinished that night.
CHAPTER II
Paul's head ached a good deal next morning and he was disinclined to
rise. However, the sun blazed in at his windows, and a bird sang in a
tree.
His temper was the temper of next day--sodden, and sullen, and
ashamed. He even resented the sunshine.
But what a beautiful creature he looked, as later he stepped into a boat
for a row on the lake! His mother, the Lady Henrietta, had truly reason
to be proud of him. So tall and straight, and fair and strong. And at the
risk of causing a second fit among some of the critics, I must add, he
probably