When she got to her room she remembered she still carried some note, and she at last looked at the superscription.  It was in Tristram’s writing.  In spite of her grief and her numbness to other things it gave her a sharp emotion.  She opened it quickly and read its few cold words.  Then it seemed as if her knees gave way under her, as at Montfitchet that day when Laura Highford had made her jealous.  She could not think clearly, nor fully understand their meaning; only one point stood out distinctly.  He must see her to arrange for their separation.  He had grown to hate her so much, then, that he could not any longer even live in the house with her, and all her grief of the day seemed less than this thought.  Then she read it again.  He knew all?  Who could have told him?  Her Uncle Francis?  No, he did not himself know that Mirko was dead until she had told him.  This was a mystery, but it was unimportant.  Her numb brain could not grasp it yet.  The main thing was that he was very angry with her for her deception of him:  that, perhaps, was what was causing him finally to part from her.  How strange it was that she was always punished for keeping her word and acting up to her principles!  She did not think this bitterly, only with utter hopelessness.  There was no use in her trying any longer; happiness was evidently not meant for her.  She must just accept things—­and life, or death, as it came.  But how hard men were—­she could never be so stern to any one for such a little fault, for any fault—­stern and unforgiving as that strange God who wrote the Commandments.

And then she felt her cheeks suddenly burn, and yet she shivered; and when her maid came to her, presently, she saw that her mistress was not only deeply grieved, but ill, too.  So she put her quickly to bed, and then went down to see Mr. Markrute.

“I think we must have a doctor, monsieur,” she said. “Miladi is not at all well.”

And Francis Markrute, deeply distressed, telephoned at once for his physician.

His betrothed had gone back to the country after luncheon, so he could not even have the consolation of her sympathy, and where Tristram was he did not know.

For the four following days Zara lay in her bed, seriously ill.  She had caught a touch of influenza the eminent physician said, and had evidently had a most severe shock as well.  But she was naturally so splendidly healthy that, in spite of grief and hopelessness, the following Thursday she was able to get up again.  Francis Markrute thought her illness had been merciful in a way because the funeral had all been got over while she was confined to her room.  Zara had accepted everything without protest.  She had not desired even to see Mirko once more.  She had no morbid fancies; it was his soul she loved and remembered, not the poor little suffering body.

It came to her as a comfort that her uncle and Mimo had met and shaken hands in forgiveness, and now poor Mimo was coming to say good-bye to her that afternoon.