“Il n’y a pas de quoi, Madame,” and bowing low walked off.  Perhaps the least contraction of curiosity was in his eyes; and he would have liked to know who the lady was who had the crown and the large M carved in the ivory of her parasol stick.  But, after all, he came to the conclusion that he did not care, and so went strolling down the path, wondering where he could hide himself if visitors were to infest the Schloss at this time of year, and in the hottest hours of the day.

“I will leave here to-morrow,” he said, “and see if I cannot be more comfortable in Pontresina.”  He reached another part of the Schloss, and sitting down resumed his pipe, which seemed destined to interruptions.

The lady of the parasol had made an impression on Dr. Claudius, for all his apparent indifference.  It was rarely, indeed, nowadays that he looked at a woman at all; and to-day he had not only looked, but he owned to himself, now it was past, that he would like to look again.  If he had had any principle in avoiding women during the last few years, he would not have admitted now that he would like to see her again—­just for one moment.  But he had no principle in the matter.  It was choice, and there it ended; and whenever he should take it into his head to associate with the fair sex again, he would consider it a sign that his youth had returned, and he would yield without the smallest struggle.  But in this ease—­“Pshaw!” thought the humble privat-docent, “she is some great lady, I suppose.  How should I make her acquaintance?  Oh!  I forgot—­I am a millionaire to-day; I have only to ask and it shall be opened.”  He smiled to himself, and, with the returning sense of the power to do what he pleased, the little undefined longing for another glimpse of the fair stranger subsided for a time.

Then he regretted it.  He was sorry it was gone; for while it had been there he had felt a something telling him he was not old after all, but only very young—­so young that he had never been in love.  As a consequence of his wishing his little rag of sentiment back again, it came; but artificially this time, and as if expecting to be criticised.  He would contemplate for a space the fair picture that had the power to rouse his weary soul, even for an instant, from the sea of indifference in which it was plunged.

Claudius lay back in the grass and crossed one leg over the other.  Then he tried to recall the features of the woman who had begun to occupy his thoughts.  She was certainly very beautiful.  He could remember one or two points.  Her skin was olive-tinted and dark about the eyes, and the eyes themselves were like soft burning amber, and her hair was very black.  That was all he could recollect of her—­saving her voice.  Ah yes! he had seen beautiful women enough, even in his quiet life, but he had never heard anything exactly like this woman’s tones.  There are some sounds one never forgets.  For instance, the glorious cry of the trumpeter swans in Iceland when they pass in full flight overhead in the early morning; or the sweet musical ring of the fresh black ice on the river as it clangs again to sweep of the steel skate.  Claudius tried to compare the sound of that voice to something he had heard, but with little success.