Three Weeks | Page 9

Lucerne in the evening he was thoroughly tired, and so hungry
he flew down to his dinner.
It was nearly nine o'clock; at least if she came to-night he would be
there to see her. But of course it did not matter if she came or not, he
had conquered that ridiculous interest. He would hardly look until he
reached his table. Yes, there she was, but dipping her white fingers in
the rosewater at the very end of her repast.
And again, in spite of himself, a strange wild thrill ran through Paul,
and he knew it was what he had been subconsciously hoping for all
day--and oh, alas! it mattered exceedingly.
The lady never glanced at him. She swept from the room, her stately
graceful movements delighting his eye. He could understand and
appreciate movement--was he not accustomed to thoroughbreds, and
able to judge of their action and line?
How blank the space seemed when she had gone--dull and unspeakably
uninteresting. He became impatient with the slowness of the waiters,
who had seemed to hurry unnecessarily the night before. But at last his

meal ended, and he went out under the trees. The sky was so full of
stars it hardly seemed dark. The air was soft, and in the distance a band
played a plaintive valse tune.
There were numbers of people walking about, and the lights from the
hotel windows lit up the scene. Only the ivy terrace was in shadow as
he again sat down on the bench.
How had she got in last night? That he must find out--he rose, and
peered about him. Yes, there was a little gate, a flight of steps, a private
entrance into this suite, just round the corner.
And as he looked at it, the lady, wrapped in a scarf of black gauze,
passed him, and standing aside while the silver-haired servant opened
the little door with a key, she then entered and disappeared from view.
It seemed as if the stars danced to Paul. His whole being was quivering
with excitement, and now he sat on the bench again almost trembling.
He did not move for at least half an hour; then the clocks chimed in the
town. No, there was no hope; he would see her no more that night. He
rose listlessly to go back to bed, tired out with his day's climb. And as
he stood up, there, above the ivy again, he saw her face looking down
upon him.
How had she crossed the terrace without his hearing her? How long had
she been there? But what matter? At least she was there. And those
eyes looking into his out of the shadow, what did they say? Surely they
smiled at him. Paul jumped on to the bench. Now he was almost level
with her face--almost--and his was raised eagerly in expectation. Was
he dreaming, or did she whisper something? The sound was so soft he
was not quite sure. He stretched out his arms to her in the darkness,
pulling himself by the ivy nearer still. And this time there was no
mistake.
"Come, Paul," she said. "I have some words to say to you."
And round to the little gate Paul flew.

CHAPTER III
Paul was never quite sure of what happened that evening--everything
was so wonderful, so unusual, so unlike his ordinary life. The gate was
unlocked he found when he got there, but no one appeared to be inside,
and he bounded up the steps and on to the terrace. Silence and
darkness--was she fooling him then? No, there she was by one of the
windows; he could dimly see her outline as she passed into the room
beyond, through some heavy curtains. That was why no light came
through to the terrace. He followed, dropping them after him also, and
then he found himself in a room as unlike a hotel as he could imagine.
It may have had the usual brocade walls and gilt chairs of the "best
suite," but its aspect was so transformed by her subtle taste and
presence, it seemed to him unique, and there were masses of
flowers--roses, big white ones--tuberoses--lilies of the valley, gardenias,
late violets. The light were low and shaded, and a great couch filled one
side of the room beyond the fireplace. Such a couch! covered with a
tiger-skin and piled with pillows, all shades of rich purple velvet and
silk, embroidered with silver and gold--unlike any pillows he had ever
seen before, even to their shapes. The whole thing was different and
strange--and intoxicating.
The lady had reached the couch, and sank into it. She was in black still,
but gauzy, clinging black, which seemed to give some gleam of purple
underneath. And if he had not been sure that