Dinner was to be at half-past eight.  She ought to be punctual, she knew; but it was all so wonderful, and refined, and old-world, in her charming room, she felt inclined to dawdle and look around.

It was a room as big as her mother’s had been, in the gloomy castle near Prague, but it was full of cozy touches—­beyond the great gilt state bed, which she admired immensely—­and with which she instinctively felt only the English—­and only such English—­know how to endow their apartments.

Then she roused herself.  She must dress.  Fortunately her hair did not take any time to twist up.

“Miladi is a dream!” Henriette exclaimed when at last she was ready. “Milor will be proud!”

And he was.

She sent Henriette to knock at his door—­his door in the passage—­not the one between their rooms!—­just on the stroke of half-past eight.  He was at that moment going to send Higgins on a like errand! and his sense of humor at the grotesqueness of the situation made him laugh a bitter laugh.

The two servants as the messengers!—­when he ought to have been in there himself, helping to fix on her jewels, and playing with her hair, and perhaps kissing exquisite bits of her shoulders when the maid was not looking, or fastening her dress!

Well, the whole thing was a ghastly farce that must be got through; he would take up politics, and be a wonderful landlord to the people at Wrayth; and somehow, he would get through with it, and no one should ever know, from him, of his awful mistake.

He hardly allowed himself to tell her she looked very beautiful as they walked along the great corridor.  She was all in deep sapphire-blue gauze, with no jewels on at all but the Duke’s splendid brooch.

That was exquisite of her, he appreciated that fine touch.  Indeed, he appreciated everything about her—­if she had known.

People were always more or less on time in this house, and after the silent hush of admiration caused by the bride’s entrance they all began talking and laughing, and none but Lady Highford and another woman were late.

And as Zara walked along the white drawing-room, on the old Duke’s arm, she felt that somehow she had got back to a familiar atmosphere, where she was at rest after long years of strife.

Lady Ethelrida had gone in with the bridegroom—­to-night everything was done with strict etiquette—­and on her left hand she had placed the bride’s uncle.  The new relations were to receive every honor, it seemed.  And Francis Markrute, as he looked round the table, with the perfection of its taste, and saw how everything was going on beautifully, felt he had been justified in his schemes.

Lady Anningford sat beyond Tristram, and often these two talked, so Lady Ethelrida had plenty of time, without neglecting him, to converse with her other interesting guest.

“I am so glad you like our old home, Mr. Markrute,” she said.  “To-morrow I will show you a number of my favorite haunts.  It seems sad, does it not, as so many people assert, that the times are trending to take all these dear, old things away from us, and divide them up?”