portion. Surely, surely she could not mean him not to see her--not to
say one little good-night. What should he do? What possible plan
invent? As eleven chimed he could bear it no longer. Rain or no, he
must go out on the terrace!

"Those mad English!" the porter said to himself, as he watched Paul's
tall figure disappear in the dripping night.

And there till after twelve he paced the path under the trees. But no
light showed; the terrace gate was locked. It was chilly and wet and
miserable, and at last he crept back utterly depressed, to bed. But
not to sleep. Even his youth and health were not proof against the mad
emotions of the day. He tossed and turned, a thousand questions
singing in his brain. Was it really he who had been chosen by this
divine woman for her lover? And if so, why was he alone now instead of
holding her in his arms? What did it all mean? Who was she? Where
would it end? But here he refused to think further. He was living at
all events--living as he had never dreamed was possible.

And yet, poor Paul, he was only on the rim of all that he was soon to
know of life.

At last he fell asleep, one sentence ringing in his ears--"Tears
and--cold steel--and blood!" But if he was young, he was a gallant
gentleman, and Fear had no place in his dreams.




CHAPTER VIII