"Confound it, Henrietta! The boy must have his head!" Sir Charles
Verdayne had said. "He's my son, you know, and you can't expect to
cure him of one wench unless you provide him with shekels to buy
another." Which crudely expressed wisdom had been followed, and Paul
had no worries where his banking account was concerned.

He bought the tiger, and ordered it to be sent to his rooms
immediately.

Then there was lunch to be thought of. She would not be there
probably, but still he had a faint hope.

She was not there, nor were any preparations made for her; but when
one is twenty-three and hungry, even if deeply in love, one must
eat. The English people had the next table beyond the sacred one of
the lady. The girl was pretty and young, and laughing. But what a
doll! thought Paul. What a meaningless wax doll! Not worth--not worth
a moment's glancing at.

And the pink and white fluffy girl was saying to herself: "There is
Paul Verdayne again. I wish he remembered he had met me at the De
Courcys', though we weren't introduced. I must get Percy to scrape up
a conversation with him. I wish mamma had not made me wear this green
alpaca to-day." But Paul's blue eyes gazed through and beyond her, and
saw her not. So all this prettiness was wasted.

And directly after lunch he returned to his sitting room. The tiger
would probably have arrived, and he wanted to further examine it. Yes,
it was there. He pulled it out and spread it over the floor. What a
splendid creature--it reminded him in some way of her--his lady.