Her ears were not anything so very wonderful! Not so _very!_ Isabella's were quite as good--and this thought comforted him a little. As far as he could see beyond the roses and the table she was a slender woman, and he had not noticed on her entrance if she were tall or short. He could not say why he felt she must be well over thirty--there was not a line or wrinkle on her face--not even the slight nip in under the chin, or the tell-tale strain beside the ears. She was certainly not pretty, _certainly_ not. Well shaped--yes--and graceful as far as he could judge; but pretty--a thousand times No! Then the speculation as to her nationality began. French? assuredly not. English? ridiculous! Equally so German. Italian? perhaps. Russian? possibly. Hungarian? probably. Paul had drunk his third glass of port and was beginning his fourth. This was far more than his usual limit. Paul was, as a rule, an abstemious young man. Why he should have deliberately sat and drank that night he never knew. His dinner had been moderate--distinctly moderate--and he had watched a refined feast of Lucullus partaken of by a woman who only _tasted_ each _plat!_ "I wonder what she will have to pay for it all?" he thought to himself. "She will probably sign the bill, though, and I shan't see." But when the lady had finished her nectarine and dipped her slender fingers in the rose-water she got up--she had not smoked, she could not be Russian then. Got up and walked towards the door, signing no bill, and paying no gold. Paul stared as she passed him--rudely stared--he knew it afterwards and felt ashamed. However, the lady never so much as noticed him, nor did she raise her eyes, so that when she had finally disappeared he was still unaware of their colour or expression. But what a figure she had! Sinuous, supple, rounded, and yet very slight. "She must have the smallest possible bones," Paul said to himself, "because it looks all curvy and soft, and yet she is as slender as a gazelle." She was tall, too, though not six feet--like Isabella! The waiters and _maître d'hôtel_ all bowed and stood aside as she left, followed by her elderly, stately, silver-haired servant. Of course it would have been an easy matter to Paul to find out her name, and all about her. He would only have had to summon Monsieur Jacques, and ask any question he pleased. But for some unexplained reason he would not do this. Instead of which he scowled in front of him, and finished his fourth glass of port. Then his head swam a little, and he went outside into the night. The rain had stopped and the sky was full of stars scattered in its intense blue. It was warm, too, there, under the clipped trees, Paul hoped he wasn't drunk--such a beastly thing to do! And not even good port either.