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.
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.
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