left the room to avoid further questioning. Then Tristram leant his head
upon his hands and tried to think.

He was in a maze--and there seemed no way out. If he went to her now and
demanded to have everything explained he might have some awful
confirmation of his suspicions, and then how could they go through
to-morrow--and the town's address? Of all things he had no right--just
because of his wild passion in marrying this foreign woman--he had no
right to bring disgrace and scandal upon his untarnished name: "noblesse
oblige" was the motto graven on his soul. No, he must bear it until
Friday night after the Glastonbury House dinner. Then he would face her
and demand the truth.

And Zara under the wing of Mrs. Anglin made a thorough tour of the
beautiful, old house. She saw its ancient arras hangings, and panellings
of carved oak, and heard all the traditions, and looked at the
portraits--many so wonderfully like Tristram, for they were a strong,
virile race--and her heart ached, and swelled with pride, alternately.
And, last of all, she stood under the portrait that had been painted by
Sargent, of her husband at his coming of age, and that master of art
had given him, on the canvas, his very soul. There he stood, in a
scarlet hunt-coat--debonair, and strong, and true--with all the promise
of a noble, useful life in his dear, blue eyes. And suddenly this proud
woman put her hand to her throat to check the sob that rose there; and
then, again, out of the mist of her tears she saw Pan and his broken
pipes.



CHAPTER XXXVII