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. They seemed to draw him--draw something out of him--intoxicate
him--paralyse him. And as he gazed up motionless the woman moved
noiselessly back on to the terrace, and he saw nothing but the night
sky studded with stars.

Had he been dreaming? Had she really bent over the ivy? Was he mad?
Yes--or drunk, because now he had seen the eyes, and yet he did not
know their colour! Were they black, or blue, or grey, or green? He did