He sat on a bench and smoked a cigar. A strange sense of loneliness came over him. It seemed as if he were far, far away from any one in the world he had ever known. A vague feeling of oppression and coming calamity passed through him, only he was really as yet too material and thoroughly, solidly English to entertain it, or any other subtle mental emotion for more than a minute. But he undoubtedly felt strange to-night; different from what he had ever done before. He would have said "weird" if he could have thought of the word. The woman and her sinuous, sensuous black shape filled the space of his mental vision. Black hair, black hat, black dress--and of course black eyes. Ah! if he could only know their colour really! The damp bench where he sat was just under the ivy hanging from the balustrade of the small terrace belonging to the ground-floor suite at the end. There was a silence, very few people passed, frightened no doubt by the recent rain. He seemed alone in the world. The wine now began to fire his senses. Why should he remain alone? He was young and rich and--surely even in Lucerne there must be--. And then he felt a beast, and looked out on to the lake. Suddenly his heart seemed to swell with some emotion, a faint scent of tuberoses filled the air--and from exactly above his head there came a gentle, tender sigh. He started violently, and brusquely turned and looked up. Almost indistinguishable in the deep shadow he saw the woman's face. It seemed to emerge from a mist of black gauze. And looking down into his were a pair of eyes--a pair of eyes. For a moment Paul's heart felt as if it had stopped beating, so wonderful was their effect upon him. They seemed to draw him--draw something out of him--intoxicate him--paralyse him. And as he gazed up motionless the woman moved noiselessly back on to the terrace, and he saw nothing but the night sky studded with stars. Had he been dreaming? Had she really bent over the ivy? Was he mad? Yes--or drunk, because now he had seen the eyes, and yet he did not know their colour! Were they black, or blue, or grey, or green? He did not know, he could not think--only they were eyes--eyes--eyes. The letter to Isabella Waring remained unfinished that night. CHAPTER II Paul's head ached a good deal next morning and he was disinclined to rise. However, the sun blazed in at his windows, and a bird sang in a tree. His temper was the temper of next day--sodden, and sullen, and ashamed. He even resented the sunshine.