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 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.