shoulders as he bowed and moved aside.

Paul's irritation grew. "She's well over thirty," he said to
himself. "I suppose she has nothing else to live for! I wonder what
the devil she'll eat next!"

She ate a delicate _truite bleu_, but she did not touch her wine
again the while. She had almost finished the fish before Paul's
_sole au vin blanc_ arrived upon the scene, and this angered him
the more. Why should he wait for his dinner while this woman feasted?
Why, indeed. What would her next course be? He found himself
unpleasantly interested to know. The tenderest _selle d'agneau au
lait_ and the youngest green peas made their appearance, and again
the _maitre d'hotel_ returned, having mixed the salad.

Paul noticed with all these things the lady ate but a small portion of
each. And it was not until a fat quail arrived later, while he himself
was trying to get through two mutton chops _a 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? Chateau Latour at fifteen francs? Chateau
Margaux, or Chateau 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. Estephe!

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