y heartless,
considering that as they two sang and flirted and went in for several
sets of singles on the tennis courts, Zuilika, like a spirit of misery,
kept walking, walking, walking through the halls and the rooms of the
house, her woeful eyes fixed on the carpet, her henna-stained fingers
constantly locking and unlocking, and moans of desolation coming now and
again from behind her yashmak as her swaying body moved restlessly to
and fro. For to-day was memorable. Five weeks ago this coming nightfall
Ulchester had flung himself out of this house in a fury of wrath, and
this time of bitter regret and ceaseless mourning had begun.

"She will go out of her mind, poor creature, if something cannot be done
to keep her from dwelling on her misery like this," commented the
housekeeper, coming upon that restless figure pacing the darkened hall,
moaning, moaning, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, doing nothing but
walk and sorrow, sorrow and walk, hour in and hour out. "It's enough to
tear a body's heart to hear her, poor dear. And that good-for-nothing
Spanish piece racing and shrieking round the tennis court like a she
tom-cat, the heartless hussy. Her and that simpering silly that's
trotting round after her had ought to be put in a bag and shaken up,
that they ought. It's downright scandalous to be carrying on like that
at such a time."

And so both the major and his son thought, too, and tried their best to
solace the lonely mourner and to persuade her to sit down and rest.

"Zuilika, you will wear yourself out, child, if you go on walking like
this," said the major solicitously. "Do rest and be at peace for a
little time at least."

"I can never have peace in this land. I can never forget the day!" she
answered drearily. "Oh, my beloved! Oh, my lord, it was I who sent thee
to it--it was I, it was I! Give me my own country--give me the gods of
my people; here there is only memory, and pain, and no rest, no rest
ever!"

She could not be persuaded to sit down and rest until Anita herself took
the matter into her own hands and insisted that she should. That was at
tea-time. Anita, showing some little trace of feeling now that Cleek had
gone to wash his hands and was no longer there to occupy her thoughts,
placed a deep, soft chair near the window, and would not yield until the
violet-clad figure of the mourner sank down into the depths of it and
leaned back with its shrouded face drooping in silent melancholy.

And it