While the financier was contentedly musing in his chair beside the fire, his niece was hurrying into the park, wrapped in a dark cloak and thick veil.  She had slipped out noiselessly, a few minutes after she left the library.  The sun had completely set now and it was damp and cold, with the dead leaves, and the sodden autumn feeling in the air.  Zara Shulski shivered, in spite of the big cloak, as she peered into the gloom of the trees, when she got nearly to the Achilles statue.  The rendezvous had been for six o’clock; it was now twenty minutes past, and it was so bad for Mirko to wait in the cold.  Perhaps they would have gone on.  But no; she caught sight of two shabby figures, close up under the statue, when she got sufficiently near.

They came forward eagerly to meet her.  And even in the half light it could be seen that the boy was an undersized little cripple of perhaps nine or ten years old but looking much younger; as it could also be seen that even in his worn overcoat and old stained felt hat the man was a gloriously handsome creature.

“What joy to see you, Cherisette!” exclaimed the child.  “Papa and I have been longing and longing all the day.  It seemed that six would never come.  But now that you are here let me eat you ­eat you up!” And the thin, little arms, too long for the wizened body, clasped fondly round her neck as she lifted him, and carried him toward a seat where the three sat down to discuss their affairs.

“I know nothing, you see, Mimo,” the Countess Shulski said, “beyond that you arrived yesterday.  I think it was foolish of you to risk it.  At least in Paris Madame Dubois would have let you stay and owe a week’s rent.  But here ­among these strangers ­”

“Now do not scold us, Mentor,” the man answered, with a charming smile.  “Mirko and I felt the sun had fled when you went last Thursday.  It rained and rained two ­three ­days, and the Dubois canary got completely on our nerves; and, heavens above! the Grisoldi insisted upon cooking garlic in his food at every meal! ­we had thought to have broken him of the habit, you remember? ­and up, up it came from his stove.  Body of Bacchus!  It killed inspiration.  I could not paint, my Cherisette, and Mirko could not play.  And so we said:  ’At least ­at least the sun of the hair of our Cherisette must shine in the dark England; we, too, will go there, away from the garlic and the canary, and the fogs will give us new ideas, and we shall create wonderful things.’  Is it not so, Mirko mio?”

“But, of course, Papa,” the boy echoed; and then his voice trembled with a pitiful note.  “You are not angry with us, darling Cherisette?  Say it is not so?”

“My little one!  How can you!  I could never be angry with my Mirko, no matter what he did!” And the two pools of ink softened from the expression of the black panther into the divine tenderness of the Sistine Madonna, as she pressed the frail, little body to her side and pulled her cloak around it.

“Only I fear it cannot be well for you here in London, and if my uncle should know, all hope of getting anything from him may be over.  He expressly said if I would come quite alone, to stay with him for these few weeks, it would be to my advantage; and my advantage means yours, as you know.  Otherwise do you think I would have eaten of his hateful bread?”

“You are so good to us, Cherisette,” the man Mimo said.  “You have, indeed, a sister of the angels, Mirko mio; but soon we shall be all rich and famous.  I had a dream last night, and already I have begun a new picture of grays and mists ­of these strange fogs!”

Count Mimo Sykypri was a confirmed optimist.

“Meanwhile you are in the one room, in Neville Street, Tottenham Court Road.  It is, I fear, a poor neighborhood.”

“No worse than Madame Dubois’,” Mimo hastened to reassure her, “and London is giving me new ideas.”

Mirko coughed harshly with a dry sound.  Countess Shulski drew him closer to her and held him tight.

“You got the address from the Grisoldi?  He was a kind little old man, in spite of the garlic,” she said.

“Yes, he told us of it, as an inexpensive resting place, until our affairs prospered, and we came straight there and wrote to you at once.”

“I was greatly surprised to receive the letter.  Have you any money at all now, Mimo?”

“Indeed, yes!” And Count Sykypri proudly drew forth eight bits of French gold from his pocket.  “We had two hundred francs when we arrived.  Our little necessities and a few paints took up two of the twenty-franc pieces, and we have eight of them left!  Oh, quite a fortune!  It will keep us until I can sell the ‘Apache.’  I shall take it to a picture dealer’s to-morrow.”

Countess Shulski’s heart sank.  She knew so well of old how long eight twenty-franc pieces would be likely to last!  In spite of Mirko’s care and watching of his father that gentleman was capable of giving one of them to a beggar if the beggar’s face and story touched him, and any of the others could go in a present to Mirko or herself ­to be pawned later, when necessity called.  The case was hopeless as far as money was concerned with Count Sykypri.

Her own meager income, derived from the dead Shulski, was always forestalled for the wants of the family ­the little brother whom she had promised her dead and adored mother never to desert.

For when the beautiful wife of Maurice Grey, the misanthropic and eccentric Englishman who lived in a castle near Prague, ran off with Count Mimo Sykypri, her daughter, then aged thirteen, had run with her, and the pair had been wiped off the list of the family.  And Maurice Grey, after cursing them both and making a will depriving them of everything, shut himself up in his castle, and steadily drank himself to death in less than a year.  And the brother of the beautiful Mrs. Grey, Francis Markrute, never forgave her either.  He refused to receive her or hear news of her, even after poor little Mirko was born and she married Count Sykypri.

For on the father’s side, the Markrute brother and sister were of very noble lineage; even with his bar sinister the financier could not brook the disgrace of Elinka.  He had loved her so ­the one soft side of his adamantine character.  Her disgrace, it seemed, had frozen all the tenderness in his nature.

Countess Shulski was silent for a few moments, while both Mimo and Mirko watched her face anxiously.  She had thrown back her veil.

“And supposing you do not sell the ‘Apache,’ Mimo?  Your own money does not come in until Christmas; mine is all gone until January, and it is the cold winter approaching ­and cold is not good for Mirko.  What then?”

Count Sykypri moved uneasily.  A tragic look grew in his handsome face; his face that was a mirror of all passing emotions; his face that had been able to express love and romance, devotion and tenderness, to wile a bird from off a tree or love from the heart of any woman.  And even though Zara Shulski knew of just how little value was anything he said or did yet his astonishing charm always softened her irritation toward his fecklessness.  So she repeated more gently: 

“What then?”

Mimo got up and flung out his arms in a dramatic way.

“It cannot be!” he said.  “I must sell the ‘Apache!’ Besides, if I don’t:  I tell you these strange, gray fogs are giving me new, wonderful thoughts ­dark, mysterious ­two figures meeting in the mist!  Oh! but a wonderful combination that will be successful in all cases.”

Mirko pressed his arm round his sister’s neck and kissed her cheek, while he cooed love words in a soft Slavonic language.  Two big tears gathered in Zara Shulski’s deep eyes and made them tender as a dove’s.

She drew out her purse and counted from it two sovereigns and some shillings which she slipped into Mirko’s small hand.

“Keep these, pet, for an emergency,” she said.  “They are all I have, but I will ­I must ­find some other way for you soon:  and now I shall have to go.  If my uncle should suspect I am seeing you I might be powerless to help further.”

They walked with her to the Grosvenor Gate, and reluctantly let her leave them; and then they watched her, as she sped across the road between the passing taxi-cabs.  When they saw the light from the opening door and her figure disappearing between the tall servants who had come to open it, the two poor, shabby figures walked on with a sigh, to try to find an omnibus which would put them down somewhere near their dingy bedroom in Neville Street, Tottenham Court Road.  And as they reached the Marble Arch there came on a sharp shower of icy rain.

Countess Shulski, however poorly dressed, was a person to whom servants were never impertinent; there was something in her bearing which precluded all idea of familiarity.  It did not even strike Turner, or James, that her clothes were what none of the housemaids would have considered fit to wear when they went out.  The remark the lordly Turner made, as he arranged some letters on the hall table, was: 

“A very haughty lady, James ­quite a bit of the Master about her, eh?”

But she went on to the lift, slowly, and to her luxurious bedroom, her heart full of pain and rage against fate.  Here she sat down before the fire, and, resting her chin on her two hands, gazed steadily into the glowing coals.

What pictures did she see of past miseries there in the flames?  Her thoughts wandered right back to the beginning.  The stern, peculiar father, and the gloomy castle.  The severe governesses ­English and German ­and her adorable, beautiful mother, descending upon the schoolroom like a fairy of light, always gay and sweet and loving.  And then of that journey to a far country, where she saw an old, old, dying gentleman in a royal palace, who kissed her, and told her she would grow as beautiful as her grandmother with the red, red hair.  And there in the palace was Mimo, so handsome and kind in his glittering aide-de-camp’s uniform, who after that often came to the gloomy castle, and, with the fairy mother, to the schoolroom.  Ah! those days were happy days!  How they three had shrieked with laughter and played hide-and-seek in the long galleries!

And then the blank, hideous moment when the angel fairy had gone, and the stern father cursed and swore, and Uncle Francis’ face looked like a vengeful fiend’s.  And then a day when she got word to meet her mother in the park of the castle.  How she clung to her and cried and sobbed to be taken, too!  And they ­Mimo and the mother ­always so kind and loving and irresponsible, consented.  And then the flight; and weeks of happiness in luxurious hotels, until the mother’s face grew pinched and white, and no letters but her own ­returned ­came from Uncle Francis.  And ever the fear grew that if Mimo were absent from her for a moment Uncle Francis would kill him.  The poor, adored mother!  And then of the coming of Mirko and all their joy over it; and then, gradually, the skeleton of poverty, when all the jewels had been sold and all Mimo’s uniform and swords; and nothing but his slender income, which could not be taken from him, remained.  How he had worked to be a real artist, there in Paris!  Oh! poor Mimo.  He had tried, but everything was so against a gentleman; and Mirko such a delicate baby, and the mother’s lovely face so often sad.  And then the time of the mother’s first bad illness ­how they had watched and prayed, and Mimo had cried tears like a child, and the doctor had said the South was the only thing to help their angel’s recovery.  So to marry Ladislaus Shulski seemed the only way.  He had a villa in the sun at Nice and offered it to them; he was crazy about her ­Zara ­at that time, though her skirts were not quite long, nor her splendid hair done up.

When her thoughts reached this far, the black panther in the Zoo never looked fiercer when Francis Markrute poked his stick between its bars to stir it up on Sunday mornings.

The hateful, hateful memories!  When she came to know what marriage meant, and ­a man!  But it had saved the sweet mother’s life for that winter.  And though it was a strain to extract anything from Ladislaus, still, in the years that followed, often she had been able to help until his money, too, was all gone ­on gambling and women.

And then the dear mother died ­died in cold and poverty, in a poor little studio in Paris ­in spite of her daughter’s and Mimo’s frantic letters to Uncle Francis for help.  She knew now that he had been far away, in South Africa, at the time, and had never received them, until too late; but then, it seemed as if God Himself had forsaken them.  And now came the memory of her solemn promise.  Mirko should never be deserted ­the adored mother could die in peace about that.  Her last words came back now ­out of the glowing coals: 

“I have been happy with Mimo, after all, my Cherisette, with you and Mimo and Mirko.  It was worth while ­” And so she had gasped ­and died.

And here the tears gathered and blurred the flaming coals.  But Zara’s decision had come.  There was no other way.  To her uncle’s bargain she must consent.

She got up abruptly and flung her hat on the bed ­her cloak had already fallen from her ­and without further hesitation she descended the stairs.

Francis Markrute was still seated in his library; he had taken out his watch and was calculating the time.  It was twenty-five minutes to eight; his guests would be coming to dine at eight o’clock and he had not begun to dress.  Would his niece have made up her mind by then?

That there could be any doubt about the fact that she would make up her mind as he wished never entered his head.  It was only a question of time but it would be better, for every reason, if she arrived at the conclusion at once.

He rose from his chair with a quiet smile as she entered the room.  So she had come!  He had not relied upon his knowledge of a woman’s temperament in vain.

She was very pale.  The extra whiteness showed even on her gardenia skin, and her great eyes gleamed sullenly from beneath her lowering brows of ink.

“If the terms are for the certain happiness of Mirko I consent,” she said.