Ten minutes passed, and Zara felt she could hardly bear the suspense.  The mad excitement had kept her up until now.  What if he were so late that he went straight to the train?  But then she remembered it went at nine—­and it was only six.  Yes, he would surely come.

She did not stir from her chair, but her senses began to take in the room.  How comfortable it was, and what good taste, even with the evidences of coming departure about!  She had seen two or three telegrams lying on the little hall table, waiting for him, as she came in—­hers among the number, she supposed.  A motor stopped, surely!—­Ah! if it should be he!  But there were hundreds of such noises in St. James’s Street, and it was too dark and foggy to see.  She sat still, her heart beating in her throat.  Yes, there was the sound of a latch key turning in the lock!  And, after stopping to pick up his telegrams, Tristram, all unexpecting to see any one, entered the room.

She rose unsteadily to meet him, as he gave an exclamation of surprise and—­yes—­pain.

“Tristram!” she faltered.  It seemed as if her voice had gone again, and the words would make no sound.  But she gathered her strength, and, with pitiful pleading, stretched out her arms.

“Tristram—­I have come to tell you—­I have never had a lover:  Mimo was at last married to Maman.  He was her lover, and Mirko was their child—­my little brother.  My uncle did not wish me to tell you this for a time, because it was the family disgrace.”  Then, as he made a step forward to her, with passionate joy in his face, she went on: 

“Tristram!  You said, that night—­before you would ever ask me to be your wife again, I must go down upon my knees—­See—­I do!—­for Oh!—­I love you!” And suddenly she bent and knelt before him, and bowed her proud head.

But she did not stay in this position a second, for he clasped her in his arms, and rained mad, triumphant kisses upon her beautiful, curved lips, while he murmured,

“At last—­my Love—­my own!”

* * * * *

Then when the delirium of joy had subsided a little,—­with what tenderness he took off her hat and furs, and drew her into his arms, on the sofa before the fire.—­The superlative happiness to feel her resting there, unresisting, safe in his fond embrace, with those eyes, which had been so stormy and resentful, now melting upon him in softest passion.

It seemed heaven to them both.  They could not speak coherent sentences for a while—­just over and over again they told each other that they loved.—­It seemed as if he could not hear her sweet confession often enough—­or quench the thirst of his parched soul upon her lips.

Then the masterfulness in him which Zara now adored asserted itself.  He must play with her hair!  He must undo it, and caress its waves, to blot out all remembrance of how its forbidden beauty had tortured him.—­And she just lay there in his arms, in one of her silences, only her eyes were slumberous with love.