A lissom, wiry, splendid English aristocrat, in perfect condition and health, was Tristram Guiscard, twenty-fourth Baron Tancred, as he lounged in his chair before the fire and dreamed of his lady and his fate.

And when they were used to one another—­at the end of the week—­there would be the party at Montfitchet where he would have the joy and pride of showing his beautiful wife—­and Laura would be there;—­he suddenly thought of her.  Poor old Laura! she had been awfully nice about it and had written him the sweetest letter.  He would not have believed her capable of it—­and he felt so kindly disposed towards her—­little as she deserved it if he had only known!

Then when these gayeties were over, he and Zara would come here to Wrayth!  And he could not help picturing how he would make love to her in this romantic setting; and perhaps soon she, too, would love him.  When he got thus far in his picturings he would shut his eyes, stretch out his long limbs, and call to Jake, his solemn bulldog, and pat his wrinkled head.

And Zara, in Paris, was more tranquil in mind than was her wont.  Mirko had not made much difficulty about going to Bournemouth.  Everything was so pretty, the day she took him there, the sun shining gayly and the sea almost as blue as the Mediterranean, and Mrs. Morley, the doctor’s wife, had been so gentle and sweet, and had drawn him to her heart at once, and petted him, and talked of his violin.  The doctor had examined his lungs and said they certainly might improve with plenty of the fine air if he were very carefully fed and tended, and not allowed to catch cold.

The parting with poor Mimo had been very moving.  They had said good-bye to him in the Neville Street lodging, as Zara thought it was wiser not to risk a scene at the station.  The father and son had kissed and clasped one another and both wept, and Mimo had promised to come to see him soon, soon!

Then there had been another painful wrench when she herself left Bournemouth.  She had put off her departure until the afternoon of the following day.  Mirko had tried to be as brave as he could; but the memory of the pathetic little figure, as she saw it waving a hand to her from the window, made those rare tears brim up and splash on her glove, as she sat in the train.

In her short life with its many moments of deep anguish she had seldom been able to cry; there were always others to be thought of first, and an iron self-control was one of her inheritances from her grandfather, the Emperor, just as that voluptuous, undulating grace, and the red, lustrous hair, came from the beautiful opera dancer and great artiste, her grandmother.

She had cautioned Mrs. Morley, if she should often hear Mirko playing the Chanson Triste, to let her know, and she would come to him.  It was a sure indication of his state of mind.  And Mrs. Morley, who had read in the Morning Post the announcement of her approaching marriage, asked her where she could be found, and Zara had stiffened suddenly and said—­at her uncle’s house in Park Lane, the letters to be marked “To be forwarded immediately.”