He stopped dead short when he saw her so white and fragile looking.  Then he exclaimed, “Zara ­you have been ill!”

“Yes,” she faltered.

“Why did they not tell me?” he said hurriedly, and then recollected himself.  How could they?  No one, not even his servant, knew where he had been.

She dropped back unsteadily on the sofa.

“Uncle Francis did telegraph to you, to Wrayth, but you were not there,” she said.

He bit his lips ­he was so very moved.  How was he to tell her all the things he had come to say so coldly, with her looking so pitiful, so gentle?  His one longing was to take her to his heart and comfort her, and make her forget all pain.

And she was so afraid of her own weakness, she felt she could not bear to hear her death-knell, yet.  If she could only gain a little time!  It was characteristic of her that she never dreamed of defending herself.  She still had not the slightest idea that he suspected Mimo of being her lover.  Tristram’s anger with her was just because he was an Englishman ­very straight and simple ­who could brook no deception! that is what she thought.

If she had not been so lately and so seriously ill ­if all her fine faculties had been in their full vigor ­perhaps some idea might have come to her; but her soul was so completely pure it did not naturally grasp such things, so even that is doubtful.

“Tristram ­” she said, and there was the most piteous appeal in her tones, which almost brought the tears to his eyes.  “Please ­I know you are angry with me for not telling you about Mirko and Mimo, but I had promised not to, and the poor, little one is dead.  I will tell you everything presently, if you wish, but don’t ask me to now.  Oh! if you must go from me soon ­you know best ­I will not keep you, but ­but please won’t you take me with you to-day ­back to Wrayth ­just until I get quite well?  My uncle is away, and I am so lonely, and I have not any one else on earth.”

Her eyes had a pleading, frightened look, like a child’s who is afraid to be left alone in the dark.

He could not resist her.  And, after all, her sin was of long ago ­she could have done nothing since she had been his wife ­why should she not come to Wrayth?  She could stay there if she wished, for a while after he had gone.  Only one thing he must know.

“Where is Count Sykypri?” he asked hoarsely.

“Mimo has gone away, back to his own country,” she said simply, wondering at his tone.  “Alas!  I shall perhaps never see him again.”

A petrifying sensation of astonishment crept over Tristram.  With all her meek gentleness she had still the attitude of a perfectly innocent person.  It must be because she was only half English, and foreigners perhaps had different points of reasoning on all such questions.

The man had gone, then ­out of her life.  Yes, he would take her back to Wrayth if it would be any comfort to her.

“Will you get ready now?” he said, controlling his voice into a note of sternness which he was far from feeling.  “Because I am sure you ought not to be out late in the damp air.  I was going in the open car, and to drive myself, and it takes four hours.  The closed one is not in London, as you know.”  And then he saw she was not fit for this, so he said anxiously, “But are you sure you ought to travel to-day at all?  You look so awfully pale.”

For there was a great difference in her present transparent, snowy whiteness, with the blue-circled eyes, to her habitual gardenia hue; even her lips were less red.

“Yes, yes, I am quite able to go,” she said, rising to show him she was all right.  “I will be ready in ten minutes.  Henriette can come by train with my things.”  And she walked towards the door, which he held open for her.  And here she paused, and then went on to the lift.  He followed her quickly.

“Are you sure you can go up alone?” he asked anxiously.  “Or may I come?”

“Indeed, I am quite well,” she answered, with a little pathetic smile.  “I will not trouble you.  Wait, I shall not be long.”  And so she went up.

And when she came down again, all wrapped in her furs, she found Tristram had port wine ready for her, poured out.

“You must drink this ­a big glass of it,” he said; and she took it without a word.

Then when they got to the door she found instead of his own open motor he had ordered one of her uncle’s closed ones, which with footwarmer and cushions was waiting, so that she should be comfortable and not catch further cold.

“Thank you ­that is kind of you,” she said.

He helped her in, and the butler tucked the fur rug over them, while Tristram settled the cushions.  Then she leaned back for a second and closed her eyes ­everything was going round.

He was very troubled about her.  She must have been very ill, even in the short time ­and then her grief, ­for, even though she had been so much separated from it, a mother always loves her child.  Then this thought hurt him again.  He hated to remember about the child.

She lay there back against the pillows until they had got quite out of London, without speaking a word.  The wine in her weak state made her sleepy, and she gradually fell into a doze, and her head slipped sideways and rested against Tristram’s shoulder, and it gave him a tremendous thrill ­her beautiful, proud head with its thick waves of hair showing under her cap.

He was going to leave her so soon, and she would not know it ­she was asleep ­he must just hold her to him a little; she would be more comfortable like that.  So, with cautious care not to wake her, he slipped his arm under the cushion, and very gently and gradually drew her into his embrace, so that her unconscious head rested upon his breast.

And thus more than two hours of the journey were accomplished.

And what thoughts coursed through his brain as they went!

He loved her so madly.  What did it matter how she had sinned?  She was ill and lonely, and must stay in his arms ­just for to-day.  But he could never really take her to his heart ­the past was too terrible for that.  And, besides, she did not love him; this gentleness was only because she was weak and crushed, for the time.  But how terribly, bitterly sweet it was, all the same!  He had the most overpowering temptation to kiss her, but he resisted it; and presently, when they came to a level crossing and a train gave a wild whistle, she woke with a start.  It was quite dark now, and she said, in a frightened voice, “Where am I?  Where have I been?”

Tristram slipped his arm from round her instantly, and turned on the light.

“You are in the motor, going to Wrayth,” he said.  “And I am glad to say you have been asleep.  It will do you good.”

She rubbed her eyes.

“Ah!  I was dreaming.  And Mirko was there, too, with Maman, and we were so happy!” she said, as if to herself.

Tristram winced.

“Are we near home ­I mean, Wrayth?” she asked.

“Not quite yet,” he answered.  “There will be another hour and a half.”

“Need we have the light on?” she questioned.  “It hurts my eyes.”

He put it out, and there they sat in the growing darkness, and did not speak any more for some time; and, bending over her, he saw that she had dozed off again.  How very weak she must have been!

He longed to take her into his arms once more, but did not like to disturb her ­she seemed to have fallen into a comfortable position among the pillows ­so he watched over her tenderly, and presently they came to the lodge gates of Wrayth, and the stoppage caused her to wake and sit up.

“It seems I had not slept for so long,” she said, “and now I feel better.  It is good of you to let me come with you.  We are in the park, are we not?”

“Yes, we shall be at the door in a minute.”

And then she cried suddenly,

“Oh! look at the deer!” For a bold and valiant buck, startled and indignant at the motor lights, was seen, for an instant, glaring at them as they flashed past.

“You must go to bed as soon as you have had some tea,” Tristram said, “after this long drive.  It is half-past six.  I telegraphed to have a room prepared for you.  Not that big state apartment you had before, but one in the other part of the house, where we live when we are alone; and I thought you would like your maid next you, as you have been ill.”

“Thank you,” she whispered quite low.

How kind and thoughtful he was being to her!  She was glad she had been ill!

Then they arrived at the door, and this time they turned to the left before they got to the Adam’s hall, and went down a corridor to the old paneled rooms, and into his own sitting-room where it was all warm and cozy, and the tea-things were laid out.  She already looked better for her sleep; some of the bluish transparency seemed to have left her face.

She had not been into this room on her inspection of the house.  She liked it best of all, with its scent of burning logs and good cigars.  And Jake snorted by the fire with pleasure to see his master, and she bent and patted his head.

But everything she did was filling Tristram with fresh bitterness and pain.  To be so sweet and gentle now when it was all too late!

He began opening his letters until the tea came.  There were the telegrams from Francis Markrute, sent a week before to say Zara was ill, and many epistles from friends.  And at the end of the pile he found a short note from Francis Markrute, as well.  It was written the day before, and said that he supposed he, Tristram, would get it eventually; that Zara had had a very sad bereavement which he felt sure she would rather tell him about herself, and that he trusted, seeing how very sad and ill she had been, that Tristram would be particularly kind to her.  So her uncle knew, then!  This was incredible:  but perhaps Zara had told him, in her first grief.

He glanced up at her; she was lying back in a great leather chair now, looking so fragile and weary, he could not say what he intended.  Then Jake rose leisurely and put his two fat forepaws up on her knees and snorted as was his habit when he approved of any one.  And she bent down and kissed his broad wrinkles.

It all looked so homelike and peaceful!  Suddenly scorching tears came into Tristram’s eyes and he rose abruptly, and walked to the window.  And at that moment the servants brought the teapot and the hot scones.

She poured the tea out silently, and then she spoke a little to Jake, just a few silly, gentle words about his preference for cakes or toast.  She was being perfectly adorable, Tristram thought, with her air of pensive, subdued sorrow, and her clinging black dress.

He wished she would suggest going to her room.  He could not bear it much longer.

She wondered why he was so restless.  And he certainly was changed; he looked haggard and unhappy, more so even than before.  And then she remembered how radiantly strong and splendid he had appeared, at dinner on their wedding night, and a lump rose in her throat.

“Henriette will have arrived by now,” she said in a few minutes.  “If you will tell me where it is I will go to my room.”

He got up, and she followed him.

“I expect you will find it is the blue, Chinese damask one just at the top of these little stairs.”  Then he strode on in front of her quickly, and called out from the top, “Yes, it is, and your maid is here.”

And as she came up the low, short steps, they met on the turn, and stopped.

“Good night,” he said.  “I will have some soup and suitable things for an invalid sent up to you; and then you must sleep well, and not get up in the morning.  I shall be very busy to-morrow.  I have a great many things to do before I go on Monday.  I am going away for a long time.”

She held on to the banisters for a minute, but the shadows were so deceiving, with all the black oak, that he was not sure what her expression said.  Her words were a very low “Thank you ­I will try to sleep.  Good night.”

And she went up to her room, and Tristram went on, downstairs ­a deeper ache than ever in his heart.