There was not any more doubt nor speculation; a woman did not sign
herself "Chérisette"--"little darling"--except to a lover! Chérisette!
He was so mad with rage that if she had come into the room at that
moment he would have strangled her, there and then.

He forgot that it was time to dress for dinner--forgot everything but
his overmastering fury. He paced up and down the room, and then after a
while, as ever, his balance returned. The law could give him no redress
yet: she certainly had not been unfaithful to him in their brief married
life, and the law recks little of sins committed before the tie. Nothing
could come now of going to her and reproaching her--only a public
scandal and disgrace. No, he must play his part until he could consult
with Francis Markrute, learn all the truth, and then concoct some plan.
Out of all the awful ruin of his life he could at least save his name.
And after some concentrated moments of agony he mastered himself at last
sufficiently to go to his room and dress for dinner.

But Count Mimo Sykypri would get no telegram that night!

The idea that there could be any scandalous interpretations put upon any
of her actions or words never even entered Zara's brain; so innocently
unconscious was she of herself and her doings that that possible aspect
of the case never struck her. She was the last type of person to make a
mystery or in any way play a part. The small subtly-created situations
and hidden darknesses and mysterious appearances which delighted the
puny soul of Laura Highford were miles beneath her feet. If she had even
faintly dreamed that some doubts were troubling Tristram she would have
plainly told him the whole story and chanced her uncle's wrath. But she
had not the slightest idea of it. She only knew that Tristram was stern