People left by all sorts of trains and motors in the morning; but there were still one or two remaining, when the bride and bridegroom made their departure, in their beautiful new car with its smart servants, which had come to fetch them, and take them to Wrayth.

And, just as the Dover young ladies on the pier had admired their embarkation, with its apanages of position and its romantic look, so every one who saw them leave Montfitchet was alike elated.  They were certainly an ideal pair.

Zara had taken the greatest pains to dress herself in her best.  She remembered Tristram had admired her the first evening they had arrived for this visit, when she had worn sapphire blue, so now she put on the same colored velvet and the sable coat ­yes, he liked that best, too, and she clasped some of his sapphire jewels in her ears and at her throat.  No bride ever looked more beautiful or distinguished, with her gardenia complexion and red burnished hair, all set off by the velvet and dark fur.

But Tristram, after the first glance, when she came down, never looked at her ­he dared not.  So they said their farewells quietly; but there was an extra warmth and tenderness in Ethelrida’s kiss, as, indeed, there was every reason that there should be.  If Zara had known!  But the happy secret was still locked in the lovers’ breasts.

“Of course it must come all right, they look so beautiful!” Ethelrida exclaimed unconsciously, waving her last wave on the steps, as the motor glided away.

“Yes, it must indeed,” whispered Francis, who was beside her, and she turned and looked into his face.

“In twenty minutes, all the rest will be gone except the Crow, and Emily, and Mary, and Lady Anningford, who are staying on; and oh, Francis, how shall I get through the morning, knowing you are with Papa!”

“I will come to your sitting-room just before luncheon time, my dearest,” he whispered back reassuringly.  “Do not distress yourself ­it will be all right.”

And so they all went back into the house, and Lady Anningford, who now began to have grave suspicions, whispered to the Crow: 

“I believe you are perfectly right, Crow.  I am certain Ethelrida is in love with Mr. Markrute!  But surely the Duke would never permit such a thing!  A foreigner whom nobody knows anything of!”

“I never heard that there was any objection raised to Tristram marrying his niece.  The Duke seemed to welcome it, and some foreigners are very good chaps,” the Crow answered sententiously, “especially Austrians and Russians; and he must be one of something of that sort.  He has no apparent touch of the Latin race.  It’s Latins I don’t like.”

“Well, I shall probably hear all about it from Ethelrida herself, now that we are alone.  I am so glad I decided to stay with the dear girl until Wednesday, and you will have to wait till then, too, Crow.”

“As ever, I am at your orders,” he grunted, and lighting a cigar, he subsided into a great chair to read the papers, while Lady Anningford went on to the saloon.  And presently, when all the departing guests were gone, Ethelrida linked her arm in that of her dear friend, and drew her with her up to her sitting-room.

“I have heaps to tell you, Anne!” she said, while she pushed her gently into a big low chair, and herself sank into the corner of her sofa.  Ethelrida was not a person who curled up among pillows, or sat on rugs, or little stools.  All her movements, even in her most intimate moments of affection with her friend, were dignified and reserved.

“Darling, I am thrilled,” Lady Anningford responded, “and I guess it is all about Mr. Markrute ­and oh, Ethelrida, when did it begin?”

“He has been thinking of me for a long time, Anne ­quite eighteen months ­but I ­” she looked down, while a tender light grew in her face, “I only began to be interested the night we dined with him ­it is a little more than a fortnight ago ­the dinner for Tristram’s engagement.  He said a number of things not like any one else, then, and he made me think of him afterwards ­and I saw him again at the wedding ­and since he has been here ­and do you know, Anne, I have never loved any one before in my life!”

“Ethelrida, you darling, I know you haven’t!” and Anne bounded up and gave her a hug.  “And I knew you were perfectly happy, and had had a blissful afternoon when you came down to tea yesterday.  Your whole face was changed, you pet!”

“Did I look so like a fool, Anne?” Ethelrida cried.

Then Lady Anningford laughed happily, as she answered with a roguish eye,

“It was not exactly that, darling, but your dear cheeks were scarlet, as though they had been exquisitely kissed!”

“Oh!” gasped Ethelrida, flaming pink, as she laughed and covered her face with her hands.

“Perhaps he knows how to make love nicely ­I am no judge of such things ­in any case, he makes me thrill.  Anne, tell me, is that ­that curious sensation as though one were rather limp and yet quivering ­is that just how every one feels when they are in love?”

“Ethelrida, you sweet thing!” gurgled Anne.

Then Ethelrida told her friend about the present of books, and showed them to her, and of all the subtlety of his ways, and how they appealed to her.

“And oh, Anne, he makes me perfectly happy and sure of everything; and I feel that I need never decide anything for myself again in my life!”

Which, taking it all round, was a rather suitable and fortunate conviction for a man to have implanted in his lady love’s breast, and held out the prospect of much happiness in their future existence together.

“I think he is very nice looking,” said Anne, “and he has the most perfect clothes.  I do like a man to have that groomed look, which I must say most Englishmen have, but Tristram has it, especially, and Mr. Markrute, too.  If you knew the despair my old man is to me with his indifference about his appearance.  It is my only crumpled rose leaf, with the dear old thing.”

“Yes,” agreed Ethelrida, “I like them to be smart ­and above all, they must have thick hair.  Anne, have you noticed Francis’ hair?  It is so nice, it grows on his forehead just as Zara’s does.  If he had been bald like Papa, I could not have fallen in love with him!”

So once more the fate of a man was decided by his hair!

And during this exchange of confidences, while Emily and Mary took a brisk walk with the Crow and young Billy, Francis Markrute faced his lady’s ducal father in the library.

He had begun without any preamble, and with perfect calm; and the Duke, who was above all a courteous gentleman, had listened, first with silent consternation and resentment, and then with growing interest.

Francis Markrute had manipulated infinitely more difficult situations, when the balance of some of the powers of Europe depended upon his nerve; but he knew, as he talked to this gallant old Englishman, that he had never had so much at stake, and it stimulated him to do his best.

He briefly stated his history, which Ethelrida already knew; he made no apology for his bar sinister; indeed, he felt none was needed.  He knew, and the Duke knew, that when a man has won out as he had done, such things fade into space.  And then with wonderful taste and discretion he had but just alluded to his vast wealth, and that it would be so perfectly administered through Lady Ethelrida’s hands, for the good of her order and of mankind.

And the Duke, accustomed to debate and the watching of methods in men, could not help admiring the masterly reserve and force of this man.

And, finally, when the financier had finished speaking, the Duke rose and stood before the fire, while he fixed his eyeglass in his eye.

“You have stated the case admirably, my dear Markrute,” he said, in his distinguished old voice.  “You leave me without argument and with merely my prejudices, which I dare say are unjust, but I confess they are strongly in favor of my own countrymen and strongly against this union ­though, on the other hand, my daughter and her happiness are my first consideration in this world.  Ethelrida was twenty-six yesterday, and she is a young woman of strong and steady character, unlikely to be influenced by any foolish emotion.  Therefore, if you have been fortunate enough to find favor in her eyes ­if the girl loves you, in short, my dear fellow, then I have nothing to say. ­Let us ring and have a glass of port!”

And presently the two men, now with the warmest friendship in their hearts for one another, mounted the staircase to Lady Ethelrida’s room, and there found her still talking to Anne.

Her sweet eyes widened with a question as the two appeared at the door, and then she rushed into her father’s arms and buried her face in his coat; and with his eyeglass very moist, the old Duke kissed her fondly ­as he muttered.

“Why, Ethelrida, my little one.  This is news!  If you are happy, darling, that is all I want!”

So the whole dreaded moment passed off with rejoicing, and presently Lady Anningford and the fond father made their exit, and left the lovers alone.

“Oh, Francis, isn’t the world lovely!” murmured Ethelrida from the shelter of his arms.  “Papa and I have always been so happy together, and now we shall be three, because you understand him, too, and you won’t make me stay away from him for very long times, will you, dear?”

“Never, my sweet.  I thought of asking the Duke, if you would wish it, to let me take the place from him in this county, which eventually comes to you, and I will keep on Thorpmoor, my house in Lincolnshire, merely for the shooting.  Then you would feel you were always in your own home, and perhaps the Duke would spend much time with us, and we could come to him here, in an hour; but all this is merely a suggestion ­everything shall be as you wish.”

“Francis, you are good to me,” she said.

“Darling,” he whispered, as he kissed her hair, “it took me forty-six years to find my pearl of price.”

Then they settled all kinds of other details:  how he would give Zara, for her own, the house in Park Lane, which would not be big enough now for them; and he would purchase one of those historic mansions, looking on The Green Park, which he knew was soon to be in the market.  Ethelrida, if she left the ducal roof for the sake of his love, should find a palace worthy of her acceptance waiting for her.

He had completely recovered his balance, upset a little the night before by the uncomfortable momentary fear about his niece.

She and Tristram had arranged to come up to Park Lane for two nights again at the end of the week, to say good-bye to the Dowager Lady Tancred, who was starting with her daughters for Cannes.  If he should see then that things were still amiss, he would tell Tristram the whole history of what Zara had thought of him.  Perhaps that might throw some light on her conduct towards him, and so things could be cleared up.  But he pinned his whole faith on youth and propinquity to arrange matters before then, and dismissed it from his mind.

Meanwhile, the pair in question were speeding along to Wrayth.

Of all the ordeals of the hours which Tristram had had to endure since his wedding, these occasions, upon which he had to sit close beside her in a motor, were the worst.  An ordinary young man, not in love with her, would have found something intoxicating in her atmosphere ­and how much more this poor Tristram, who was passionately obsessed.

Fortunately, she liked plenty of window open and did not object to smoke; but with the new air of meekness which was on her face and the adorably attractive personal scent of the creature, nearly two hours with her, under a sable rug, was no laughing matter.

At the end of the first half hour of silence and nearness, her husband found he was obliged to concentrate his mind by counting sheep jumping over imaginary stiles to prevent himself from clasping her in his arms.

It was the same old story, which has been chronicled over and over again.  Two young, human, natural, normal people fighting against iron bars.  For Zara felt the same as he, and she had the extra anguish of knowing she had been unjust, and that the present impossible situation was entirely her own doing.

And how to approach the subject and confess her fault?  She did not know.  Her sense of honor made her feel she must, but the queer silent habit of her life was still holding her enchained.  And so, until they got into his own country, the strained speechlessness continued, and then he looked out and said: 

“We must have the car opened now ­please smile and bow as we go through the villages when any of the old people curtsey to you; the young ones won’t do it, I expect, but my mother’s old friends may.”

So Zara leaned forward, when the footman had opened the landaulette top, and tried to look radiant.

And the first act of this pitiful comedy began.