She was not a _demi-mondaine_. The English ones he knew were very ordinary people, but he had heard of some of the French ladies as being quite _grande dame_, and travelling _en prince_. Yet he was convinced this was not one of them. Who _could_ she be? He must know. To go back to the hotel would be the shortest way to find out, and so by the next descending train he left the Bürgenstock. He walked up and down under the lime-trees outside the terrace of her rooms for half an hour, but was not rewarded in any way for his pains. And at last he went in. He, too, would have a dinner worth eating, he thought. So he consulted the _maître d'hôtel_ on his way up to dress, and together they evolved a banquet. Paul longed to question the man about the unknown, but as yet he was no actor, and he found he felt too much about it to do it naturally. He dressed with the greatest care, and descended at exactly half-past eight. Yes, the table was laid for her evidently--but there were giant carnations, not roses, in the silver vase to-night. How quickly the waiters seemed to bring things! And what a frightful lot there was to eat! And dawdle as he would, by nine o'clock he had almost finished. Perhaps it would be as well to send for a newspaper again. Anything to delay his having to rise and go out. An anxious, uncomfortable gnawing sense of expectancy dominated him. How ridiculous for a woman to be so late! What cook could do justice to his dishes if they were thus to be kept waiting? She couldn't possibly have _ordered_ it for half past nine, surely! Gradually, as that hour passed and his second cup of coffee had been sipped to its finish, Paul felt a sickening sense of anger and disappointment. He got up abruptly and went out. In the hall, coming from the corridor of her rooms, he met the lady face to face. Then rage with himself seized him. Why had he not waited? For no possible reason could he go back now. And what a chance to look at her missed--and all thrown away. He sat sullenly down in the hall, resisting the temptation to go into the beautiful night. At least he would see her on her way back. But he waited until nearly eleven, and she never appeared, and then the maddening thought came to him--she had probably passed to her rooms along the terrace outside, under the lime-tree. He bounded up, and stalked into the starlight. He could see through the windows of the restaurant, and no one was there. Then he sat on the bench again, under the ivy--but all was darkness and silence; and thoroughly depressed, Paul at last went to bed. Next day was so gloriously fine that youth and health sang within him. He was up and away quite early. Not a thought of this strange lady should cross his mind for the entire day, he determined as he ate his breakfast. And soon he started for the Rigi in a launch, taking the English papers with him. Intense joy, too! A letter from Isabella!