Paul was young, but he knew paint when he saw it, and this red was real, and vivid, and disconcerted him.
He began his soup--hers came at the same time; she had only toyed with some caviare by way of _hors d'oeuvre_, and it angered him to notice the obsequiousness of the waiters, who passed each thing to the dignified servant to be placed before the lady by his hand. Who was she to be served with this respect and rapidity?
Only her red wine the _maître d'hôtel_ poured into her glass himself. She lifted it up to the light to see the clear ruby, then she sipped it and scented its bouquet, the _maître d'hôtel_ anxiously awaiting her verdict the while. "_Bon_," was all she said, and the weight of the world seemed to fall from the man's sloping shoulders as he bowed and moved aside.
Paul's irritation grew. "She's well over thirty," he said to himself. "I suppose she has nothing else to live for! I wonder what the devil she'll eat next!"
She ate a delicate _truite bleu_, but she did not touch her wine again the while. She had almost finished the fish before Paul's _sole au vin blanc_ arrived upon the scene, and this angered him the more. Why should he wait for his dinner while this woman feasted? Why, indeed. What would her next course be? He found himself unpleasantly interested to know. The tenderest _selle d'agneau au lait_ and the youngest green peas made their appearance, and again the _maître d'hôtel_ returned, having mixed the salad.
Paul noticed with all these things the lady ate but a small portion of each. And it was not until a fat quail arrived later, while he himself was trying to get through two mutton chops _à l'anglaise_, that she again tasted her claret. Yes, it was claret, he felt sure, and probably wonderful claret at that. Confound her! Paul turned to the wine list. What could it be? Château Latour at fifteen francs? Château Margaux, or Château Lafite at twenty?--or possibly it was not here at all, and was special, too--like the roses and the attention. He called his waiter and ordered some port--he felt he could not drink another drop of his modest St. Estèphe!
All this time the lady had never once looked at him; indeed, except that one occasion when she had lifted her head to examine the wine with the light through it, he had not seen her raise her eyes, and then the glass had been between himself and her. The white lids with their heavy lashes began to irritate him. What colour could they be? those eyes underneath. They were not very large, that was certain--probably black, too, like her hair. Little black eyes! That was ugly enough, surely! And he hated heavy black hair growing in those unusual great waves. Women's hair should be light and fluffy and fuzzy, and kept tidy in a net--like Isabella's. This looked so thick--enough to strangle one, if she twisted it round one's throat. What strange ideas were those coming into his head? Why should she think of twisting her hair round a man's throat? It must be the port mounting to his brain, he decided--he was not given to speculating in this way about women.