If any one had told Paul this was going to happen to him, this experience, he would have laughed them to scorn. To begin with, he was rather shy with ladies as a rule, and had not learnt a trick of _entreprenance_. It took him quite a while to know one well enough to even talk at ease. And yet here he was, embarked upon an adventure which savoured of the Arabian Nights. He came forward and sat down, and he could feel the pulse beating in his throat. It all seemed perfectly natural at the time, but afterwards he wondered how she had known his name was Paul--and how it had all come to pass. "For three days you have thought of me, Paul--is it not so?" she said, half closing her lids. But he could only blurt out "Yes!" while he devoured her with his eyes. "We are both--how shall I say--drifting--holiday-making--trying to forget. And we must talk a little together, _n'est-ce pas_? Tell me?" "Oh, yes!" said Paul. "You are beautiful, you know, Paul," she went on. "So tall and straight like you English, with curly hair of gold. Your mother must have loved you as a baby." "I suppose she did," said Paul. "She is well? Your mother, the stately lady?" "Very well--do you know her?" he asked, surprised. "Long ago I have seen her, and I knew you at once, so like you are--and to your uncles, especially the Lord Hubert." "Uncle Hubert is a rotter!" "A--rotter?" inquired the lady. "And what is that?" And she smiled a divine smile. Paul felt ashamed. "Oh! well, it _is_ a rotter, you know--that _is_--like Uncle Hubert, I mean." She laughed again. "You do not explain well, but I understand you. And so you only resemble the Uncle Hubert on the outside--that is good." Paul felt jealous. Lord Hubert Aldringham's reputation--for some things--was European. "I hope so," he said with emphasis. "And you knew him well then, too?" "I never said so," replied the lady. "I saw him once--twice perhaps--years ago--at the marriage of a princess. There, it has made you frown, we will speak no more of the Uncle Hubert!" and she leant back and laughed. Paul felt very young. He wanted to show her he was grown up, and he wanted a number of things which had never even formed themselves in his imagination before. But she went on talking. "And your _cotelettes_ were tough, Paul, and you were so cross that first evening, and hated me! And oh! Paul, you had far too much wine for a boy like you!" He reddened to the roots of his fair wavy hair, and then he hung his head. "I know I did--it was beastly of me--but I was so--upset--I--" "Look at me," she said, and she bent forward over him--a gliding feline movement infinitely sinuous and attractive. Then he looked, his big blue eyes still cloudy with a mist of shame. "You must tell me why you were upset, baby--Paul!" How often she said his name! lingering over it as if it were music. It thrilled him every time. Then he gained courage.