Three Weeks. Glyn Elinor
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.
"But how did you know anything about it—or what I had—or what I drank? You never once raised your eyelids all the time!"
"Perhaps I can see through them when I want to—who knows!" and she laughed.
"And you wanted to—wanted to see through them?"
He was gazing at her now, and she suddenly looked down, while the most beautiful transparent pink flushed her soft white cheeks, turning her into a tender girl almost. The change was so sudden, it startled Paul, and emboldened him.
"You wanted to!" he repeated in a glad voice. "You wanted to see me?"
"Yes," she whispered, and she looked up at him, but this time there was mischief in her eyes.
"Is that why you sighed then among the ivy? What made you sigh?"
She paused a moment, and then she said slowly: "A number of things. You seemed so young, and so beautiful, and so—asleep."
"Indeed I wasn't asleep!" Paul exclaimed. "It would take a great deal more port than that to make me go to sleep. I was thinking of—" And then he saw she had not meant that kind of sleep, and felt a fool—and wondered.
She helped him out.
"All this time you have not told me why you were upset—upset enough to drink bad port. That was naughty of you, Paul."
"I was upset—over you. I was angry because I was so interested—" and he reddened again.
She leant back among the purple cushions, her figure so supple in its lines, it made him think of a snake. She half closed her eyes again—and she spoke low in a dreamy voice:
"It was fate, Paul. I knew it when I entered the room. I felt it again among the green trees, and so I ran from you—but to-night it is plus fort que moi—so I called you to come in."
"I am so glad—so glad," said Paul.
She remained silent. Her eyes in their narrowed lids gleamed at him, seeming to penetrate into his very soul. And now he noticed her mouth again. It neither drooped nor smiled, it was straight, and chiselled and strong, and small rather, and the lower lip was rounded and slightly cleft in the centre. A most appetising red flower of a mouth.
By this time Paul was more or less intoxicated with excitement, he had lost all sense of time and place. It seemed as if he had known her always—that there never had been a moment when she had not filled the whole of his horizon.
They were both silent for a couple of minutes. As far as he could gather from her inscrutable face, she was weighing things—what things?
Suddenly she sprang up, one of those fine movements of hers full of cat-like grace.
"Paul," she said, "listen," and she spoke rather fast. "You are so young, so young—and I shall hurt you—probably. Won't you go now—while there is yet time? Away from Lucerne, back to Paris—even back to England. Anywhere away from me."
She put her hand on his arm, and looked up into his eyes. And there were tears in hers. And now he saw that they were grey.
He was moved as never yet in all his life.
"I will not!" he said. "I may be young, but to-night I know—I want to live! And I will chance the hurt, because I know that only you can teach me—just how—"'
Then his voice broke, and he bent down and covered her hand with kisses.
She quivered a little and drew away. She picked up a great bunch of tuberoses, and broke off all their tops. "There, take them!" she said, pressing them into his hands, and those against his heart. "Take them and go—and dream of me. You have chosen. Dream of me to-night and remember—there is to-morrow."
Then she glided back from him, and before he realised it she had gone noiselessly away through another door.
Paul stood still. The room swam; his head swam. Then he stumbled out on to the terrace, under the night sky, the white blossoms still pressed against his heart.
He must have walked about for hours. The grey dawn was creeping over the silent world when at last he went back to the hotel and to his bed.
There he slept and dreamt—never a dream! For youth and health are glorious things. And he was tired out.
The great sun was high in the heavens when next he awoke. And the room was full of the scent of tuberoses, scattered on the pillow beside him. Presently, when his blue eyes began to take in the meaning of things, he remembered and bounded up. For was not this the commencement of his first real day?
CHAPTER IV
The problem which faced Paul, when he had finished a very late breakfast, was how he should see her soon—the lady in black.
He could not go and call like an ordinary visitor, because he did not know her name! That was wonderful—did not even know her name, or anything about her, only that his whole being was thrilling with anxiety to see her again.
The simplest thing to do seemed to descend into the hall and look at the Visitors' List, which he promptly did.
There were only a few people in the hotel; it was not hard, therefore, guessing at the numbers of the rooms, to arrive at