So, the moment the servants went out of the room to get the
coffee--after a desultory conversation about the engagement until then,
he said coldly:

"You told me on Monday that you now know the reason I had married you:
may I ask you why did you marry me?"

She clasped her hands convulsively. This brought it all back--her poor
little brother--and she was not free yet from her promise to her uncle:
she never failed to keep her word.

A look of deep, tragic earnestness grew in her pools of ink, and she
said to him, with a strange sob in her voice:

"Believe me I had a strong reason, but I cannot tell it to you now."

And the servants reentered the room at the moment, so he could not ask
her why: it broke the current.

But what an unexpected inference she always put into affairs! What was
the mystery? He was thrilled with suspicious, terrible interest. But of
one thing he felt sure--Francis Markrute did not really know.

And in spite of his chain of reasoning about this probable lover some
doubt about it haunted him always; her air was so pure--her mien so
proud.

And while the servants were handing the coffee and still there Zara
rose, and, making the excuse that she must write to her uncle at once,