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 _maitre d'hotel_ 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 _maitre d'hotel_ now removed the claret, out of which the
lady had only drunk one glass.

(What waste! thought Paul.)