woman I ever saw. She was gay and active; she was never
tired, never ailing, and she enjoyed life with a keen zest such as is
unknown to the tired multitudes who toil on hopelessly and wearily,
wondering, as they work, why they were born. Zara evidently had no
doubts or speculations of this kind; she drank in every minute of her
existence as if it were a drop of honey-dew prepared specially for her
palate. I never could believe that her age was what she had declared it
to be. She seemed to look younger every day; sometimes her eyes had
that limpid, lustrous innocence that is seen in the eyes of a very
little child; and, again, they would change and glow with the earnest
and lofty thought of one who had lived through years of study,
research, and discovery. For the first few days of my visit she did not
work in her studio at all, but appeared to prefer reading or talking
with me. One afternoon, however, when we had returned from a short
drive in the Bois de Boulogne, she said half hesitatingly:

"I think I will go to work again to-morrow morning, if you will not
think me unsociable."

"Why, Zara dearest!" I replied. "Of course I shall not think you
unsociable. I would not interfere with any of your pursuits for the
world."

She looked at me with a sort of wistful affection, and continued:

"But you must know I like to work quite alone, and though it may look
churlish, still not even you must come into the studio. I never can do
anything before a witness; Casimir himself knows that, and keeps away
from me."

"Well!" I said, "I should be an ungrateful wretch if I could not oblige
you in so small a request. I promise not to disturb you, Zara; and do
not think for one moment that I shall be dull. I have books, a piano,
flowers--what more do I want? And if I like I can go out; then I have
letters to write, and all sorts of things to occupy me. I shall be
quite happy, and I shall not come near you till you call me."

Zara kissed me.

"You are a dear girl," she said; "I hate to appear inhospitable, but I
know you are a real friend--that you will love me as much away from you
as near you, and that you have none of that vulgar curiosity which some
women give way to, when what they desire to see is hidden from them.
You are not inquisitive, are you?"

I laughed.

"The affairs of other people have never appeared so interesting to me
that I have cared to bother myself about them," I replied.
"Blue-Beard's Chamber would n