He started violently, and brusquely turned and looked up. Almost indistinguishable in the deep shadow he saw the woman's face. It seemed to emerge from a mist of black gauze. And looking down into his were a pair of eyes--a pair of eyes. For a moment Paul's heart felt as if it had stopped beating, so wonderful was their effect upon him. They seemed to draw him--draw something out of him--intoxicate him--paralyse him. And as he gazed up motionless the woman moved noiselessly back on to the terrace, and he saw nothing but the night sky studded with stars.
Had he been dreaming? Had she really bent over the ivy? Was he mad? Yes--or drunk, because now he had seen the eyes, and yet he did not know their colour! Were they black, or blue, or grey, or green? He did not know, he could not think--only they were eyes--eyes--eyes.
The letter to Isabella Waring remained unfinished that night.