"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 _maitre d'hotel_ 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