e_."

And then with a confident air as of complete and perfect understanding
on the part of an old and trusted friend, the bustling little _maitre
d'hotel_ bowed himself out.

Paul proceeded, with his usual care, to dress for dinner, pausing
first to stand in the window of his dressing-room and gaze wistfully
upon the lake he loved so well, now dimming slowly in the Spring
twilight.

The last time! Ah, well, so be it, then. There must come an end to all
things. And Paul turned away with a sigh, drawing the draperies gently
together, as if to shut out the memories of the past.

How well he succeeded, we shall soon know.

He was the last to enter the restaurant, which was well filled that
evening. On his way to his accustomed place he passed the table at
which sat Miss Daisy Livingstone, his American fellow-traveller,
dining with her mother; and another where the Comtesse, by courtesy,
sat toying with a _pate_. To Paul's annoyance, he was greeted further
down the room by a member of his club; Graham Barclay was not a
particular favourite of his, at any time, and furthermore Paul had no
desire, just now, to be reminded of London. As civilly as he could,
he declined an invitation to join the party, pleading fatigue from his
long journey, and moved on to the end of the room, where his old
waiter, Henri, stood, with hand on chair-back, ready to help him to a
seat.

"Deuced fine fellow, Verdayne," explained Barclay in parentheses to
his friends. "A bit abstracted sometimes, as you see. But he'll be all
right after tiffin. We'll gather him in for billiards later."

The eyes of more than one guest followed Paul as he walked the length
of the restaurant, for Verdayne possessed that peculiar quality--that
spiritual attraction--magnetism--(call it what you will, a few elect
mortals have it) that stamps a man indelibly. But of all those who
marked him as he moved among the tables, none regarded him more
closely than a lady who sat alone in a small recess, screened from
prying eyes by a bank of greenery.

A marvellous lady she was, with hair as black as the sweep of a
raven's wing, crowning a face as finely chiselled as any Florentine
cameo. And if the diamonds about her smooth white throat had wondrous
sheen they were not more lustrous nor more full of sparkling fire than
her opalescent eyes.

Unseen by the preoccupied Paul, she leaned across the cloth, scarcely
whiter than her pale face, and gazed at him with wonder--wa