Zara had, at first, thought she would not go out with the shooters.  She felt numb, as if she could not pluck up enough courage to make conversation with any one.  She had received a letter from Mimo, by the second post, with all details of what he had heard of Mirko.  Little Agatha, the Morleys’ child, was to return home the following day; and Mirko himself had written an excited little letter to announce this event, which Mimo enclosed.  He seemed perfectly well then, only at the end, as she would see, he had said he was dreaming of Maman every night; and Mimo knew that this must mean he was a little feverish again, so he had felt it wiser to telegraph.  Mirko had written out the score of the air which Maman always came and taught him, and he was longing to play it to his dear Papa and his Cherisette, the letter ended with.

And the pathos of it all caused Zara a sharp pain.  She did not dare to look ahead, as far as her little brother was concerned.  Indeed, to look ahead, in any case, meant nothing very happy.

She was just going up the great staircase at about a quarter to eleven, with the letter in her hand, when she met Tristram coming from his room, with his shooting boots on, ready to start.  He stopped and said coldly ­they had not spoken a word yet that day ­

“You had better be quick putting your things on.  My uncle always starts punctually.”

Then his eye caught the foreign writing on the letter, and he turned brusquely away, although, as he reasoned with himself a moment afterwards, it was ridiculous of him to be so moved, because she would naturally have a number of foreign correspondents.  She saw him turn away, and it angered her in spite of her new mood.  He need not show his dislike so plainly, she thought.  So she answered haughtily,

“I had not intended to come.  I am tired; and I do not know this sport, or whether it will please me.  I should feel for the poor birds, I expect.”

“I am sorry you are tired,” he answered, contrite in an instant.  “Of course, you must not come if you are.  They will be awfully disappointed.  But never mind.  I will tell Ethelrida.”

“It is nothing ­my fatigue, I mean.  If you think your cousin will mind, I will come.”  And she turned, without waiting for him to answer, and went on to her room.

And Tristram, after going back to his for something he had forgotten, presently went on down the stairs, a bitter smile on his face, and at the bottom met ­Laura Highford.

She looked up into his eyes, and allowed tears to gather in hers.  She had always plenty at her command.

“Tristram,” she said with extreme gentleness, “you were cross with me yesterday afternoon, because you thought I was saying something about your wife.  But don’t you know, can’t you understand, what it is to me to see you devoted to another woman?  You may be changed, but I am always the same, and I ­I ­” And here she buried her face in her hands and went into a flood of tears.

Tristram was overcome with confusion and horror.  He loathed scenes.  Good heavens!  If any one should come along!

“Laura, for goodness’ sake!  My dear girl, don’t cry!” he exclaimed.  He felt he would say anything to comfort her, and get over the chance of some one seeing this hateful exhibition.

But she continued to sob.  She had caught sight of Zara’s figure on the landing above, and her vengeful spirit desired to cause trouble, even at a cost to herself.  Zara had been perfectly ready, all but her hat, and had hurried exceedingly to be in time, and thus had not been five minutes after her husband.

“Tristram!” wailed Laura, and, putting up her hands, placed them on his shoulders.  “Darling, just kiss me once ­quickly ­to say good-bye.”

And it was at this stage that Zara came full upon them, from a turn in the stairs.  She heard Tristram say disgustedly, “No, I won’t,” and saw Lady Highford drop her arms; and in the three steps that separated them, her wonderful iron self-control, the inheritance of all her years of suffering, enabled her to stop as if she had seen nothing, and in an ordinary voice ask if they were to go to the great hall.

“The woman,” as she called Laura, should not have the satisfaction of seeing a trace of emotion in her, or Tristram either.  He had answered immediately, “Yes,” and had walked on by her side, in an absolutely raging temper.

How dare Laura drag him into a disgraceful and ridiculous scene like this!  He could have wrung her neck.  What must Zara think?  That he was simply a cad!  He could not offer a single explanation, either; indeed, she had demanded none.  He did blurt out, after a moment,

“Lady Highford was very much upset about something.  She is hysterical.”

“Poor thing!” said Zara indifferently, and walked on.

But when they got into the hall, where most of the company were, she suddenly felt her knees giving way under her, and hurriedly sank down on an oak chair.

She felt sick with jealous pain, even though she had plainly seen that Tristram was no willing victim.  But upon what terms could they be, or have been, for Lady Highford so to lose all sense of shame?

Tristram was watching her anxiously.  She must have seen the humiliating exhibition.  It followed, then, she was perfectly indifferent, or she would have been annoyed.  He wished that she had reproached him, or said something ­anything ­but to remain completely unmoved was too maddening.

Then the whole company, who were coming out, appeared, and they started.  Some of the men were drawing lots to see if they should shoot in the morning or in the afternoon.  The party was primarily for Lady Ethelrida’s birthday, and the shoot merely an accessory.

Zara walked by the Crow, who was not shooting at all.  She was wearied with Lord Elterton; wearied with every one.  The Crow was sententious and amused her, and did not expect her to talk.

“You have never seen your husband shoot yet, I expect, Lady Tancred, have you?” he asked her; and when she said, “No,” he went on, “Because you must watch him.  He is a very fine shot.”

She did not know anything about shooting, only that Tristram looked particularly attractive in his shooting clothes, and that English sportsmen were natural, unceremonious creatures, whom she was beginning to like very much.  She wished she could open her heart to this quaint, kind old man, and ask him to explain things to her; but she could not, and presently they got to a safe place and watched.

Tristram happened to be fairly near them; and, yes, he was a good shot ­she could see that.  But, at first, the thud of the beautiful pheasants falling to the ground caused her to wince ­she, who had looked upon the shattered face of Ladislaus, her husband, with only a quiver of disgust!  But these creatures were in the glory of their beauty and the joy of life, and had preyed upon the souls of no one.

Her wonderful face, which interested Colonel Lowerby so, was again abstracted.  Something had brought back that hateful moment to her memory; she could hear Feto, the dancer’s shrieks, and see the blood; and she shivered suddenly and clasped her hands.

“Do you mind seeing the birds come down?” the Crow asked kindly.

“I do not know,” she said.  “I was thinking of some other shooting.”

“Because,” the Crow went on, “the women who rage against sport forget one thing, ­the birds would not exist at all, if it were not for preserving them for this very reason.  They would gradually be trapped and snared and exterminated; whereas, now they have a royal time, of food and courtship and mating, and they have no knowledge of their coming fate, and so live a life of splendor up to the last moment.”

“How much better!  Yes, indeed, I will never be foolish about them again.  I will think of that.”  Then she exclaimed, “Oh, that was wonderful!” for Tristram got two rocketters at right and left, and then another with his second gun.  His temper had not affected his eye, it seemed.

“Tristram is one of the best all-round sportsmen I know,” the Crow announced, “and he has one of the kindest hearts.  I have known him since he was a toddler.  His mother was one of the beauties, when I first put on a cuirass.”

Zara tried to control her interest, and merely said, “Yes?”

“Are you looking forward to the reception at Wrayth on Monday?  I always wonder how a person unaccustomed to England would view all the speeches and dinners, the bonfire, and triumphal arches, and those things of a home-coming.  Rather an ordeal, I expect.”

Zara’s eyes rounded, and she faltered,

“And shall I have to go through all that?”

The Crow was nonplussed.  Had not her husband, then, told her, what every one else knew?  Upon what terms could they possibly be?  And before he was aware of it, he had blurted out, “Good Lord!”

Then, recollecting himself, he said,

“Why, yes.  Tristram will say I have been frightening you.  It is not so very bad, after all ­only to smile and look gracious and shake hands.  They will be all ready to think you perfect, if you do that.  Even though there are a lot of beastly radicals about, Old England still bows down to a beautiful woman!”

Zara did not answer.  She had heard about her beauty in most European languages, since she was sixteen.  It was the last thing which mattered, she thought.

Then the Crow turned the conversation, as they walked on to the next stand.

Did she know that Lady Ethelrida had commanded that all the ladies were to get up impromptu fancy dresses for to-night, her birthday dinner, and all the men would be in hunt coats? he asked.  Large parties were coming from the only two other big houses near, and they would dance afterward in the picture gallery.  “A wonderful new band that came out in London this season is coming down,” he ended with; and, then, as she replied she had heard, he asked her what she intended to be.  “It must be something with your hair down ­you must give us the treat of that.”

“I have left it all to Lady Ethelrida and my sisters-in-law,” she said.  “We are going to contrive things the whole afternoon, after lunch.”

Tristram came up behind them then, and the Crow stopped.

“I was telling your wife she must give us the pleasure of seeing her hair down, to-night, for the Tomfools’ dinner, but I can’t get a promise from her.  We will have to appeal to you to exert your lordly authority.  Can’t be deprived of a treat like that!”

“I am afraid I have no influence or authority,” Tristram answered shortly, for with a sudden pang he thought of the only time he had seen the glorious beauty of it, her hair, spread like a cloak around her, as she had turned and ordered him out of her room at Dover.  She remembered the circumstance, too, and it hurt her equally, so that they walked along silently, staring in front of them, and each suffering pain; when, if they had had a grain of sense, they would have looked into each other’s eyes, read the truth, and soon been in each other’s arms.  But they had not yet “dree’d their weird.”  And Fate, who mocks at fools, would not yet let them be.

So the clouds gathered overhead, as in their hearts, and it came on to pour with rain; and the ladies made a hurried rush to the house.

The hostess did not stand near Francis Markrute during the shooting.  Some shy pleasure made her avoid him for the moment.  She wanted to hug the remembrance of her great joy of the morning, and the knowledge that to-morrow, Sunday, after lunch, would bring her a like pleasure.  And for the time being there was the delight of thinking over what he had said, the subtlety of his gift, and the manner of its giving.

Nothing so goes to the head of a woman of refined sensibilities as the intoxicating flattery of thought-out action in a man, when it is to lay homage at her feet, and the man is a grave and serious person, who is no worshiper of women.

Ethelrida trod on air, and looked unusually sweet and gracious.

And Francis Markrute watched her quietly, with great tenderness in his heart, and not the faintest misgiving.  “Slow and sure” was his motto, and thus he drew always the current of success and contentment.

His only crumpled roseleaf was the face of his niece, which rather haunted him.  There seemed no improvement in the relations of the pair, in spite of Zara having had ample cause to feel jealous about Lady Highford since their arrival.  Elinka, too, had had strange and unreasonable turns in her nature, that is what had made her so attractive.  What if Zara and this really fine young Englishman, with whom he had mated her, should never get on?  Then he laughed, when he thought of the impossibility of his calculations finally miscarrying.  It was, of course, only a question of time.  However, he would tell her before she left for her “home-coming” at Wrayth on Monday, what he thought it was now safe and advisable that she should know, namely, that on her husband’s side the marriage had been one of headlong desire for herself, after having refused the bargain before he had seen her.  That would give her some bad moments of humiliation, he admitted, which perhaps she had not deserved, though it would certainly bring her to her knees and so, to Tristram’s arms.

But for once, being really quite preoccupied with his own affairs and a little unbalanced by love as well, he miscalculated the force of a woman’s pride.  Zara’s one idea now was to hide from Tristram the state of her feelings, believing, poor, bruised, wounded thing, that he no longer cared for her, believing that she herself had extinguished the torch of love.