It spoke highly for the strength and nobility of her character that, whereas another and weaker woman would have become degraded by the sorrows of such a life, she had remained pure as the snow, and as cold.  Her strong will and her pride had kept completely in check every voluptuous instinct which must certainly have always lain dormant in her.  Every emotion towards man was frozen to ice.

There are some complete natures which only respond to the highest touch; when the body and soul are evenly balanced they know all that is divine of human love.  It is those warped in either of the component parts who bring sorrow—­and lust.

The perfect woman gives willingly of herself, body and soul, to the one man she loves.

But of all these things Zara was ignorant.  She only knew she was exhausted, and she crept wearily to bed.

Thus neither bride nor bridegroom, on this their wedding night, knew peace or rest.

They met next day for a late breakfast.  They were to go to Paris by the one o’clock boat.  They were both very quiet and pale.  Zara had gone into the sitting-room first, and was standing looking out on the sea when her husband came into the room, and she did not turn round, until he said “Good morning,” coldly, and she realized it was he.

Some strange quiver passed over her at the sound of his voice.

“Breakfast should be ready,” he went on calmly.  “I ordered it for eleven o’clock.  I told your maid to tell you so.  I hope that gave you time to dress.”

“Yes, thank you,” was all she said; and he rang the bell and opened the papers, which the waiters had piled on the table, knowing the delight of young bridal pairs to see news of themselves!

And as Zara glanced at her lord’s handsome face she saw a cynical, disdainful smile creep over it, at something he read.

And she guessed it was the account of their wedding; and she, too, took up another paper and looked at the headings.

Yes, there was a flaming description of it all.  And as she finished the long paragraphs she raised her head suddenly and their eyes met.  And Tristram allowed himself to laugh—­bitterly, it was true, but still to laugh.

The lingering fear of the ways of men was still in Zara’s heart and not altogether gone; she was not yet quite free from the suspicion that he still might trap her if she unbent.  So she frowned slightly and then looked down at the paper again; and the waiters brought in breakfast at that moment and nothing was said.

They did not seem to have much appetite, nor to care what they ate, but, the coffee being in front of her, politeness made Zara ask what sort her husband took, and when he answered—­none at all—­he wanted tea—­she was relieved, and let him pour it out at the side-table himself.

“The wind has got up fiercely, and it will be quite rough,” he said presently.  “Do you mind the sea?”