eyes, her face wore a mask, and she was perfectly calm.

She made no apology, nor allusion to her outburst; she treated the
incident as though it had never been! She held a letter in her hand,
which had come by the second post while they were out. It was written by
her uncle from London, the night before, and contained his joyous news.

Tristram looked at her and was again dumbfounded. She was certainly a
most extraordinary woman. And some of his rage died down and he decided
he would not, after all, demand an explanation of her now; he would let
the whole, hideous rejoicings be finished first and then, in London, he
would sternly investigate the truth. And not the least part of his pain
was the haunting uncertainty as to what her words could mean, as
regarded himself. If by some wonderful chance it were some passion in
the past and she now loved him, he feared he could forgive her--he
feared even his pride would not hold out over the mad happiness it would
be to feel her unresisting and loving, lying in his arms!

So with stormy eyes and forced smiles the pair sat down to luncheon, and
Zara handed him the epistle she carried in her hand. It ran:

"MY DEAR NIECE:

"I have to inform you of a piece of news that is a great gratification
to myself, and I trust will cause you, too, some pleasure.

"Lady Ethelrida Montfitchet has done me the honor to accept my proposal
for her hand, and the Duke, her father, has kindly given his hearty
consent to my marriage with his daughter, which is to take place as soon
as things can be arranged with suitability. I hope you and Tristram will