blue eyes hollow with pain, and had laughed a bitter laugh,
and gone to play bridge, which he loathed, with the Meltons and Mrs.
Harcourt. So for him, the evening had passed.

And Francis Markrute had taken his niece aside to give her his bit of
salutary information. He wished to get it over as quickly as possible,
and had drawn her to a sofa rather behind a screen, where they were not
too much observed.

"We have all had a most delightful visit, I am sure, Zara," he had said,
"but you and Tristram seem not to be yet as good friends as I could
wish."

He paused a moment, but as usual she did not speak, so he went on:

"There is one thing you might as well know, I believe you have not
realized it yet, unless Tristram has told you of it himself."

She looked up now, startled--of what was she ignorant then?

"You may remember the afternoon I made the bargain with you about the
marriage," Francis Markrute went on. "Well, that afternoon Tristram,
your husband, had refused my offer of you and your fortune with scorn.
He would never wed a rich woman he said, or a woman he did not know or
love, for any material gain; but I knew he would think differently when
he had seen how beautiful and attractive you were, so I continued to
make my plans. You know my methods, my dear niece."

Zara's blazing and yet pitiful eyes were all his answer.

"Well, I calculated rightly. He came to dinner that night, and fell
madly in love with you, and at once asked to marry you himself, while he
insisted upon your fortune being tied up entirely upon you, and any
children that you might have, only allowing me to pay off the mortgages
on Wrayth for himself. It would be impossible for a man to have behaved
more like a gentleman. I thought now, in case you had not grasped all
this, you had better know." And then he said anxiously, "Zara--my dear
child--what is the matter?" for her proud head had fallen forward on her
breast, with a sudden deadly faintness. This, indeed, was the filling of
her cup.

His voice pulled her together, and she sat up; and to the end of his
life, Francis Markrute will never like to remember the look in her eyes.

"And you let me go on and marry him, playing this cheat? You let me go
on and spoil both our lives! What had I ever done to you, my uncle, that
you should be so cruel to me? Or is it to be revenged upon my mother for
the hurt she brought to your pride?"

If she had reproached him, stormed at him, anything,