haughty bearing.

Zara's manner was that of an empress graciously receiving foreigners in
a private audience!

The guests now arrived in quick succession. Lord Charles and his son,
"Young Billy," then Tristram and his sisters, and Jimmy Danvers, and,
lastly, the Duke and Lady Ethelrida.

They were all such citizens of the world there was no awkwardness, and
the old Duke had kissed his fair, prospective niece's hand when he had
been presented, and had said that some day he should claim the privilege
of an old man and kiss her cheek. And Zara had smiled for an instant,
overcome by his charm, and so she had put her fingers on his arm, and
they had gone down to dinner; and now they were talking suavely.

Francis Markrute had a theory that certain human beings are born with
moral antennae--a sort of extra combination beyond the natural of the
senses of sight, smell, hearing and understanding--which made them
apprehend situations and people even when these chanced to be of a
hitherto unknown race or habit. Zara was among those whose antennae were
highly developed. She had apprehended almost instantaneously that
whatever their motives were underneath, her future husband's family were
going to act the part of receiving her for herself. It was a little
ridiculous, but very well bred, and she must fall in with it when with
them collectively like this.

Before they had finished the soup the Duke was saying to himself that
she was the most attractive creature he had ever met in his life, and no
wonder Tristram was mad about her; for Tristram's passionate admiration
to-night could not have been mistaken by a child!

And yet Zara had never smiled, but that once--in the drawing-room.

Lady Ethelrida from where she sat could see her face through a gap in
the flowers. The financier had ordered a tall arrangement on purpose:
if Zara by chance should look haughtily indifferent it were better that
her expression should escape the observation of all but her nearest
neighbors. However, Lady Ethelrida just caught the picture of her
through an oblique angle, against a background of French panelling.

And with her quiet, calm judgment of people she was wondering what was
the cause of that strange look in her eyes? Was it of a stag at bay? Was
it temper, or resentment, or only just pain? And Tristram had said their
color was slate gray; for her part she saw nothing but pools of jet ink!

"There is some tragic story hidden here," she th