The desolation which came over Paul when next day before lunch time he found himself alone on the terrace, looking down vainly trying to distinguish his lady's launch as it glided over the blue waters, seemed unendurable. An intense depression filled his being. It was as if a limb had been torn from him; he felt helpless and incomplete, and his whole soul drawn to Lucerne.

The green trees and the exquisite day seemed to mock him. Alone, alone--with no prospect of seeing his Queen until the morrow, when at eleven he was to meet her at the landing-steps at the foot of the funiculaire.

But that was to-morrow, and how could he get through to-day?

After an early lunch he climbed to their rock at the summit, and sat there where they had sat together--alone with his thoughts.

And what thoughts!

What was this marvellous thing which had happened to him? A fortnight ago he was in Paris, disgusted with everything around him, and fancying himself in love with Isabella Waring. Poor Isabella! How had such things ever been possible? Why, he was a schoolboy then--a child--an infant! and now he was a man, and knew what life meant in its greatest and best. That was part of the wonder of this lady, with all her intense sensuousness and absence of what European nations call morality; there was yet nothing low or degrading in her influence, its tendency was to exalt and elevate into broad views and logical reasonings. Nothing small would ever again appeal to Paul. His whole outlook was vaster and more full of wide thoughts.