any directness, and he seemed coldly indifferent to anything
she said.

"We shall have to stay here for the whole, boring week," he announced
when at last coffee was on the table and they were alone. "There are
certain obligations one's position obliges one to conform to. You
understand, I expect. I will try to make the time as easy to bear for
you as I can. Will you tell me what theaters you have not already seen?
We can go somewhere every night, and in the daytime you have perhaps
shopping to do; and--I know Paris quite well. I can amuse myself."

Zara did not feel enthusiastically grateful, but she said, "Thank you,"
in a quiet voice, and Tristram, rang the bell and asked for the list of
the places of amusement, and in the most stiff, self-contained manner he
chose, with her, a different one for every night.

Then he lit a cigar deliberately, and walked towards the door.

"Good-night, Milady," he said nonchalantly, and then went out.

And Zara sat still by the table and unconsciously pulled the petals off
an unoffending rose; and when she realized what she had done she was
aghast!

It was not until about five o'clock the next day that he came into the
sitting-room again.

_Milor_ had gone to the races, and had left a note for _Miladi_ in the
morning, the maid had said.

And Zara, as she lay back on her pillows, had opened it with a strange
thrill.

"You won't be troubled with me to-day," she read. "I am going out with
some old friends to Maisons Liafitte. I have said you want to rest from
the journey, as one has to say something. I have arranged for us to
dine at the Cafe de Paris at 7:30, and go to the Gymnase. Tell Higgins,
my valet, if you change the plan." And the note was not even signed!

Well, it appeared she had nothing further to fear from him; she could
breathe much relieved. And now for her day of quiet rest.

But when she had had her lonely lunch and her letters to her uncle and
Mirko were written, she found herself drumming aimlessly on the window
panes, and wondering if she would go out.

She had no friends in Paris whom she wanted to see. Her life there with
her family had been entirely devoted to them alone. But it was a fine
day and there is always something to do in Paris--though what then,
particularly, she had not decided; perhaps she would go to the Louvre.

And then she sank down into the big sofa, opposite the blazing wood
fire, and gradually fell fast asleep. She slept, with unb