"Mademoiselle Pavoya, this is Captain John Manners, just back from France: a cousin of the Duchess of Claremanagh's," said the manager who was introducing Jack.
Lyda Pavoya lifted her drooping head a little—only a little, and fixed upon Manners a pair of dark eyes. "A pair of dark eyes!" Simple words, and a simple act. There are many women in the world with dark eyes, and many had looked at John Manners. But these eyes of the Polish woman——!
As they gave that upward look from under heavy lashes Manners felt himself a traitor. He had heard all sorts of stories about Lyda Pavoya. He had got an impression that she was a "tigress woman." And then, the dancing that he had seen her do was wild and barbaric. But to-night she was a swan.
Her eyes were dark, but not black or even brown. They were perhaps a very deep, greenish grey, and extraordinarily luminous. Yes, that was the word: luminous! "Brilliant" would be too hard. There was a mysterious, moonlight sort of luminance between the black fringes of the white lids, and the whole face—pale, delicate, with pointed chin—was mysterious as only Polish or Russian faces are.
"Why does she look at me so?" Jack thought. It was almost as if she guessed, because he was Juliet's cousin, why he had asked for this introduction. He could not believe that she, who met so many people, could recognize the man in evening dress as the officer in khaki she had seen on the Phayre doorstep.
They were in a room at the theatre where Mademoiselle Pavoya received privileged persons: a plainly furnished room, mostly grey except for masses of flowers, and it suited her better than a background of fantastic colour. Perhaps it was this greyness which made her stand out so vividly, and seem of such vital, thrilling importance. She was extremely quiet in manner, and her voice was low. Yet her quietness was disturbing, like that of a summer night when lightning may leap from a clear sky.
Manners was struck dumb by her. Something had flashed from her eyes to his with that first look. It did not say merely, "I am a woman. You are a man." It said—or seemed to say—"You are the man. I am the woman. We had to meet. And now—what?"
He tried to think that this was a trick of hers which she used on every male worthy of her steel. But he could not believe it to be so. Her perfume—that perfume of an Eastern garden by moonlight—had gone to his head. No woman had ever produced such an effect upon him, though they had exchanged but a few words, and those not memorable. Yet he was not humiliated by his own surrender. In spite of all reason he was convinced that she had been stirred by him as he by her.
The meeting was between Pavoya's dances, and she had not many minutes to spare. Her manager had impressed upon Manners that the few she gave were an immense concession. There was no hope of prolonging them. Her call came. She had to go. Again eyes met with that shock to the nerves. Suddenly Lyda held out her hand to Jack. Clasping it, electricity flashed up his arm and stabbed at his heart. He felt her start slightly, and his breath quickened.
For Juliet's sake, and the promise he had made, it was Manners' duty to take instant advantage of his "luck" with Pavoya. But he was not thinking about Juliet—or the promise. He was neither remorseful nor triumphant. All he thought of or wanted as they talked in snatches was to hold this woman, not to let her go till he had arranged to meet her again. He must meet her again! He must know what she really was—what they were to be in each other's lives. But he could not ask permission to call. He was stupidly tongue-tied, and could not put words together as he would have wished.