By this time he was conscious of an absorbing interest thrilling his
whole being--disapproving irritated interest.
The _maitre d'hotel_ 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 _creme 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.
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