And it was not until a fat quail arrived later, while he himself was trying to get through two mutton chops à l'anglaise, that she again 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.