"Your own PAUL."

And he was.

A bright fire burnt in the grate, and some palest orchid-mauve silk
curtains were drawn in the lady's room when Paul entered from the
terrace. And loveliest sight of all, in front of the fire, stretched
at full length, was his tiger--and on him--also at full
length--reclined the lady, garbed in some strange clinging garment of
heavy purple crepe, its hem embroidered with gold, one white arm
resting on the beast's head, her back supported by a pile of the
velvet cushions, and a heap of rarely bound books at her side, while
between her red lips was a rose not redder than they--an almost
scarlet rose. Paul had never seen one as red before.

The whole picture was barbaric. It might have been some painter's
dream of the Favourite in a harem. It was not what one would expect to
find in a sedate Swiss hotel.

She did not stir as he stepped in, dropping the heavy curtains after
him. She merely raised her eyes, and looked Paul through and through.
Her whole expression was changed; it was wicked and dangerous and
_provocante_. It seemed quite true, as she had said--she was
evidently in the devil's mood.

Paul bounded forward, but she raised one hand to stop him.

"No! you must not come near me, Paul. I am not safe to-day. Not
yet. See, you must sit there and we will talk."