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The Woman of Mystery
"Suppose I were to tell you," said Paul Delroze, "that I once stood face to face with him on French. . . ." lisabeth looked up at him with the fond expression of a bride to whom the least word of the man she loves is a subject of wonder: "You have seen William II. in France?" "Saw him with my own eyes; and I have never forgotten a single one of the details that marked the meeting. And yet it happened very long ago." He was speaking with a sudden seriousness, as though the revival of that memory had awakened the most painful thoughts in his mind. "Tell me about it, won't you, Paul?" asked lisabeth.
"Suppose I were to tell you," said Paul Delroze, "that I once stood face to face with him on French. . . ." lisabeth looked up at him with the fond expression of a bride to whom the least word of the man she loves is a subject of wonder: "You have seen William II. in France?" "Saw him with my own eyes; and I have never forgotten a single one of the details that marked the meeting. And yet it happened very long ago." He was speaking with a sudden seriousness, as though the revival of that memory had awakened the most painful thoughts in his mind. "Tell me about it, won't you, Paul?" asked lisabeth.
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