“Good-bye!” I repeated in astonishment; “why ’good-bye’?”

“Because it is my fancy to say the word,” she replied with quiet firmness.  “Again, dear little friend, good-bye!”

I felt bewildered, but she would not give me time to utter another syllable.  She took my hand and hurried me with her downstairs, and in another moment we were both in the drawing-room, receiving and saying polite nothings to the Everards and Challoners, who had all arrived together, resplendent in evening costume.  Amy Everard, I thought, looked a little tired and fagged, though she rejoiced in a superb “arrangement” by Worth of ruby velvet and salmon-pink.  But, though a perfect dress is consoling to most women, there are times when even that fails of its effect; and then Worth ceases to loom before the feminine eye as a sort of demi-god, but dwindles insignificantly to the level of a mere tailor, whose prices are ruinous.  And this, I think, was the state of mind in which Mrs. Everard found herself that evening; or else she was a trifle jealous of Zara’s harmonious grace and loveliness.  Be this as it may, she was irritable, and whisperingly found fault with, me for being in such good health.

“You will have too much colour if you don’t take care,” she said almost pettishly, “and nothing is so unfashionable.”

“I know!” I replied with due meekness.  “It is very bad style to be quite well—­it is almost improper.”

She looked at me, and a glimmering smile lighted her features.  But she would not permit herself to become good-humoured, and she furled and unfurled her fan of pink ostrich feathers with some impatience.

“Where did that child get all those pearls from?” she next inquired, with a gesture of her head towards Zara.

“They belonged to her mother,” I answered, smiling as I heard Zara called a child, knowing, as I did, her real age.

“She is actually wearing a small fortune on her person,” went on Amy; “I wonder her brother allows her.  Girls never understand the value of things of that sort.  They should be kept for her till she is old enough to appreciate them.”

I made no reply; I was absorbed in watching Heliobas, who at that moment entered the room accompanied by Father Paul.  He greeted his guests with warmth and unaffected heartiness, and all present were, I could see, at once fascinated by the dignity of his presence and the charm of his manner.  To an uninstructed eye there was nothing unusual about him; but to me there was a change in his expression which, as it were, warned and startled me.  A deep shadow of anxiety in his eyes made them look more sombre and less keen; his smile was not so sweet as it was stern, and there was an undefinable something in his very bearing that suggested—­what?  Defiance?  Yes, defiance; and it was this which, when I had realized it, curiously alarmed me.  For what had he, Heliobas, to do with even the thought of defiance?  Did