The eyes of the fair-haired girl haunted me. Instinctively I knew that she was no ordinary person. Her apathy and listlessness, her strangely vacant look, combined with the wonderful beauty of her countenance, held me fascinated.
Who was she? What mystery surrounded her? I felt, by some strange intuition, that there was a mystery, and that that curious wistfulness in her glance betrayed itself because, though accompanied by her father, she was nevertheless in sore need of a friend.
When her father had drained his coffee they rose and passed into the great lounge, with its many little tables set beneath the palms, where a fine orchestra was playing Maillart’s tuneful “Les Dragons de Villars.”
As they seated themselves many among that well-dressed, gay crowd of winter idlers turned to look at them. I, however, seldom went into the nightly concert; therefore I strolled along the wide corridor to the hall-porter, and inquired the names of the fresh arrivals.
“Yes, monsieur,” replied the big, dark-bearded German; “you mean, of course, numbers one hundred and seventeen and one hundred and forty-six—English, father and daughter, arrived by the five o’clock boat from Riva with a great deal of baggage—here are the names,” and he showed me the slips signed by them on arrival. “They are the only new-comers to-day.”
There I saw, written on one in a man’s bold hand, “Richard Pennington, rentier, Salisbury, England,” and on the other, “Sylvia Pennington.”
“I thought they were French,” I remarked.
“So did I, monsieur; they speak French so well. I was surprised when they registered themselves as English.”