All this time the lady had never once looked at him; indeed, except that one occasion when she had lifted her head to examine the wine with the light through it, he had not seen her raise her eyes, and then the glass had been between himself and her. The white lids with their heavy lashes began to irritate him. What colour could they be? those eyes underneath. They were not very large, that was certain--probably black, too, like her hair. Little black eyes! That was ugly enough, surely! And he hated heavy black hair growing in those unusual great waves. Women's hair should be light and fluffy and fuzzy, and kept tidy in a net--like Isabella's. This looked so thick--enough to strangle one, if she twisted it round one's throat. What strange ideas were those coming into his head? Why should she think of twisting her hair round a man's throat? It must be the port mounting to his brain, he decided--he was not given to speculating in this way about women. What would she eat next? And why did it interest him what she ate or did not eat? The _maître d'hôtel_ again appeared with a dish of marvellous-looking nectarines. The waiter now handed the dignified servant the finger-bowl, into which he poured rose-water. Paul could just distinguish the scent of it, and then he noticed the lady's hands. Yes, they at least were faultless; he could not cavil at _them_; slender and white, with that transparent whiteness like mother-of-pearl. And what pink nails! And how polished! Isabella's hands--but he refused to think of them. By this time he was conscious of an absorbing interest thrilling his whole being--disapproving irritated interest. The _maître d'hôtel_ now removed the claret, out of which the lady had only drunk one glass. (What waste! thought Paul.) And then he returned with a strange-looking bottle, and this time the dignified servant poured the brilliant golden fluid into a tiny liqueur-glass. What could it be? Paul was familiar with most liqueurs. Had he not dined at every restaurant in London, and supped with houris who adored _crême de menthe_? But this was none he knew. He had heard of Tokay--Imperial Tokay--could it be that? And where did she get it? And who the devil was the woman, anyway? She peeled the nectarine leisurely--she seemed to enjoy it more than all the rest of her dinner. And what could that expression mean on her face? Inscrutable--cynical was it? No--absorbed. As absolutely unconscious of self and others as if she had been alone in the room. What could she be thinking of never to worry to look about her? He began now to notice her throat, it was rounded and intensely white, through the transparent black stuff. She had no strings of pearls or jewels on--unless--yes, that was a great sapphire gleaming from the folds of gauze on her neck. Not surrounded by diamonds like ordinary brooches, but just a big single stone so dark and splendid it seemed almost black. There was another on her hand, and yet others in her ears.