Then, when he looked
away, the lady's weird chameleon eyes melted upon him in that strange
tenderness which might have been a mother's watching the gambols of
her babe.
The shadows were quite deep when at last they decided to return to
Lucerne--a small bunch of heaven's own blue flower the only trophy of
the day.
Paul had never enjoyed himself so much in his twenty-three years of
life. And what would the evening bring? Surely more joy. This parting
at the landing could not be good-night!
But as the launch glided nearer and nearer his heart fell, and at last
he could bear the uncertainty no longer.
"And for dinner?" he said. "Won't you dine me, my Princess? Let me be
your host, as you have been mine all to-day."
But a stiffness seemed to fall upon her suddenly--she appeared to have
become a stranger again almost.
"Thank you, no. I cannot dine," she said. "I must write letters--and
go to sleep."
Paul felt an ice-hand clutching his heart. His face became so blank as
to almost pale before her eyes.
She leant forward, and smiled. "Will you be lonely, Paul? Then at ten
o'clock you must come under the ivy and wish me good-night."
And this was all he could gain from her. She landed him to walk back
to the hotel at the same place from which they had embarked, and the
launch struck out again into the lake.
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