"And the wine? Ah! the _Tokayi Imperial_, of a certainty. Absolutely, Monsieur, we refuse to serve it to anyone but yourself. Only last week it was, when a waiter who would have set it before some rich Americans--but that is over, he is here no longer." Paul smiled indulgently at the solicitous little man. It was good to be here again, talking with Monsieur Jacques as in the old days. "One moment, more, Monsieur, before I go. Is it that Monsieur desires the same arrangements to be made again this year--the visit to the little village on the lake, the climb up the Buergenstock, the pilgrimage to the Swiss farmhouse? Yes? Assuredly, Monsieur, it shall be done, _tout de suite_." And then with a confident air as of complete and perfect understanding on the part of an old and trusted friend, the bustling little _maitre d'hotel_ bowed himself out. Paul proceeded, with his usual care, to dress for dinner, pausing first to stand in the window of his dressing-room and gaze wistfully upon the lake he loved so well, now dimming slowly in the Spring twilight. The last time! Ah, well, so be it, then. There must come an end to all things. And Paul turned away with a sigh, drawing the draperies gently together, as if to shut out the memories of the past. How well he succeeded, we shall soon know. He was the last to enter the restaurant, which was well filled that evening. On his way to his accustomed place he passed the table at which sat Miss Daisy Livingstone, his American fellow-traveller, dining with her mother; and another where the Comtesse, by courtesy, sat toying with a _pate_. To Paul's annoyance, he was greeted further down the room by a member of his club; Graham Barclay was not a particular favourite of his, at any time, and furthermore Paul had no desire, just now, to be reminded of London. As civilly as he could, he declined an invitation to join the party, pleading fatigue from his long journey, and moved on to the end of the room, where his old waiter, Henri, stood, with hand on chair-back, ready to help him to a seat. "Deuced fine fellow, Verdayne," explained Barclay in parentheses to his friends. "A bit abstracted sometimes, as you see. But he'll be all right after tiffin. We'll gather him in for billiards later." The eyes of more than one guest followed Paul as he walked the length of the restaurant, for Verdayne possessed that peculiar quality--that spiritual attraction--magnetism--(call it what you will, a few elect mortals have it) that stamps a man indelibly. But of all those who marked him as he moved among the tables, none regarded him more closely than a lady who sat alone in a small recess, screened from prying eyes by a bank of greenery.