her alone at Wrayth, just kiss her until she can't breathe--and you'll
find it is all right!"

With which absolutely sensible advice, he had slapped his nephew on the
back, fixed in his eyeglass, and walked off; and Tristram had stood
there, his blue eyes hollow with pain, and had laughed a bitter laugh,
and gone to play bridge, which he loathed, with the Meltons and Mrs.
Harcourt. So for him, the evening had passed.

And Francis Markrute had taken his niece aside to give her his bit of
salutary information. He wished to get it over as quickly as possible,
and had drawn her to a sofa rather behind a screen, where they were not
too much observed.

"We have all had a most delightful visit, I am sure, Zara," he had said,
"but you and Tristram seem not to be yet as good friends as I could
wish."

He paused a moment, but as usual she did not speak, so he went on:

"There is one thing you might as well know, I believe you have not
realized it yet, unless Tristram has told you of it himself."

She looked up now, startled--of what was she ignorant then?

"You may remember the afternoon I made the bargain with you about the
marriage," Francis Markrute went on. "Well, that afternoon Tristram,
your husband, had refused my offer of you and your fortune with scorn.
He would never wed a rich woman he said, or a woman he did not know or
love, for any material gain; but I knew he would think differently when