A woman to order dinner for herself beforehand, and have special wine
and special roses--special attention, too! It was simply disgusting!

Paul frowned. He brought his brown eyebrows close together, and glared
at the creature with his blue young eyes.

An elderly, dignified servant in black livery stood behind her
chair. She herself was all in black, and her hat--an expensive,
distinguished-looking hat--cast a shadow over her eyes. He could just
see they were cast down on her plate. Her face was white, he saw that
plainly enough, startlingly white, like a magnolia bloom, and
contained no marked features. No features at all! he said to
himself. Yes--he was wrong, she had certainly a mouth worth looking at
again. It was so red. Not large and pink and laughingly open like
Isabella's, but straight and chiselled, and red, red, red.

Paul was young, but he knew paint when he saw it, and this red was
real, and vivid, and disconcerted him.

He began his soup--hers came at the same time; she had only toyed with
some caviare by way of _hors d'oeuvre_, and it angered him to
notice the obsequiousness of the waiters, who passed each thing to the
dignified servant to be placed before the lady by his hand. Who was
she to be served with this respect and rapidity?

Only her red wine the _maitre d'hotel_ poured into her glass
himself. She lifted it up to the light to see the clear ruby, then she
sipped it and scented its bouquet, the _maitre d'hotel_ anxiously
awaiting her verdict the while. "_Bon_," was all she said, and
the weight of the world seemed to fall from the man's sloping