of the milk of human kindness. And Tristram thought of
himself on the day he had gone to Victoria to meet Zara, when she had
come from Paris, and he had given a beggar half a sovereign, from sheer
joy of life.

For happiness and wine open men's hearts. He would not attempt to speak
about his own troubles until the morning: it was only fair to leave the
elderly lover without cares until after the dinner at Glastonbury House.

At last Zara was able to creep away. She watched her chance, and, with
the cunning of desperation, finding the hall momentarily empty,
stealthily stole out of the front door. But it was after half-past six
o'clock, and they were dining at Glastonbury House, St. James's Square,
at eight.

She got into a taxi quickly, finding one in Grosvenor Street because she
was afraid to wait to look in Park Lane, in case, by chance, she should
be observed; and at last she reached the Neville Street lodging, and
rang the noisy bell.

The slatternly little servant said that the gentleman was "hout," but
would the lady come in and wait? He would not be long, as he had said
"as how he was only going to take a telegram."

Zara entered at once. A telegram!--perhaps for her--Yes, surely for her.
Mimo had no one else, she knew, to telegraph to. She went up to the
dingy attic studio. The fire was almost out, and the little maid lit one
candle and placed it upon a table. It was very cold on this damp
November day. The place struck her as piteously poor, after the grandeur
from which she had come. Dear, foolish, generous Mimo! She must do
something for him--and would plan how. The room had the air of
scrupulous cleanness which his things always wore, and there was the
"Apache" picture waiting for her to take, in a new gold frame; and the
"London Fog" seemed to be advanced, too; he had evidently worked at it
late, because his palette and brushes, still wet, were on a box beside
it, and on a chair near was his violin. He was no born musician like
Mirko, but played very well. The palette and brushes showed he must have
put them hurriedly down. What for? Why? Had some message come for him?
Had he heard news? And a chill feeling gripped her heart. She looked
about to see if Mirko had written a letter, or one of his funny little
postcards? No, there was nothing--nothing she had not seen except, yes,
just this one on a picture of the town. Only a few words: "Thank
Cherisette for her letter, Agatha is _tres jolie_, but does n