The idea that there could be any scandalous interpretations put upon any of her actions or words never even entered Zara’s brain; so innocently unconscious was she of herself and her doings that that possible aspect of the case never struck her.  She was the last type of person to make a mystery or in any way play a part.  The small subtly-created situations and hidden darknesses and mysterious appearances which delighted the puny soul of Laura Highford were miles beneath her feet.  If she had even faintly dreamed that some doubts were troubling Tristram she would have plainly told him the whole story and chanced her uncle’s wrath.  But she had not the slightest idea of it.  She only knew that Tristram was stern and cold, and showed his disdain of her, and that even though she had made up her mind to be gentle and try to win him back with friendship, it was almost impossible.  She looked upon his increased, icy contempt of her at dinner as a protest at her outburst of tears during the day.

So the meal was got through, and the moment the coffee was brought he gulped it down, and then rose:  he could not stand being alone with her for a moment.

She was looking so beautiful, and so meek, and so tragic, he could not contain the mixed emotions he felt.  He only knew if he had to bear them another minute he should go mad.  So, hardly with sufficient politeness he said: 

“I have some important documents to look over; I will wish you good night.”  And he hurried her from the room and went on to his own sitting-room in the other part of the house.  And Zara, quite crushed with her anxiety and sorrow about Mirko, and passionately unhappy at Tristram’s treatment of her, once more returned to her lonely room.  And here she dismissed her maid, and remained looking out on the night.  The mist had gone and some pure, fair stars shone out.

Was that where Maman was—­up there?  And was Mirko going to her soon, away out of this cruel world of sorrow and pain?  As he had once said, surely there, there would be room for them both.

But Zara was no morbidly sentimental person, the strong blood ran in her veins, and she knew she must face her life and be true to herself, whatever else might betide.  So after a while the night airs soothed her, and she said her prayers and went to bed.

But Tristram, her lord, paced the floor of his room until almost dawn.

* * * * *

The next day passed in the same kind of way, only, it was nearly all in public, with local festivities again; and both of the pair played their parts well, as they were now experienced actors, and only one incident marked the pain of this Thursday out from the pains of the other days.  It was in the schoolhouse at Wrayth, where the buxom girl who had been assistant mistress, and had married, a year before, brought her first-born son to show the lord and lady—­as he had been born on their wedding day, just a fortnight