He grew merry as a cricket, and his laughter pealed over the paper cap Mimo made for him and the towel his sister had for an apron.  They were to be the servants, and Mimo a lordly guest.

And soon the table was laid, and the buns toasted and buttered; Zara had even bought a vase of the same china, in which she placed a bunch of autumn red roses, to match those painted on it and this was a particular joy.

“The Apache,” which had not yet found a purchaser, stood on one easel, and from it the traveling rug hung to the other, concealing all unsightly things, and yesterday Mimo had bought from the Tottenham Court Road a cheap basket armchair with bright cretonne cushions.  And really, with the flowers and the blazing fire when they sat down to tea it all looked very cozy and home-like.

What would her uncle or Lord Tancred have thought, could they have seen those tempestuous eyes of Zara’s glistening and tender—­and soft as a dove’s!

After tea she sat in the basket chair, and took Mirko in her arms, and told him all about the delightful, new home he was going to, the kind lady, and the beautiful view of the sea he would get from his bedroom windows; how pretty and fresh it all looked, how there were pine woods to walk in, and how she would—­presently—­come down to see him.  And as she said this her thoughts flew to her own fate—­what would her “presently” be?  And she gave a little, unconscious shiver almost of fear.

“What hast thou, Cherisette?” said Mirko.  “Where were thy thoughts then?—­not here?”

“No, not here, little one.  Thy Cherisette is going also to a new home; some day thou must visit her there.”

But when he questioned and implored her to tell him about it she answered vaguely, and tried to divert his thoughts, until he said: 

“It is not to Maman in heaven, is it, dear Cherisette?  Because there, there would be enough place for us both—­and surely thou couldst take me too?”

* * * * *

When she got back to Park Lane, and entered her uncle’s library he was sitting at the writing table, the telephone in his hand.  He welcomed her with his eyes and went on speaking, while she took a chair.

“Yes, do come and dine.—­May you see her if by chance she did not go to Paris?” He looked up at Zara, who frowned.  “No—­she is very tired and has gone to her room for the evening.—­She has been in the country to-day, seeing some friends.—­No—­not to-morrow—­she goes to the country again, and to Paris the following night—­To the station?  I will ask her, but perhaps she is like me, and dislikes being seen off,” then a laugh,—­and then, “All right—­well, come and dine at eight—­good-bye.”  The financier put the receiver down and looked at his niece, a whimsical smile in his eyes.

“Well,” he said, “your fiance is very anxious to see you, it seems.  What do you say?”

“Certainly not!” she flashed.  “I thought it was understood; he shall not come to the train.  I will go by another if he insists.”