ed merely from the desire of her
exquisite body? Had there been nothing beyond? Were men really
brutes?--And here he walked up and down very fast. What did it all mean?
What did life mean? What was the truth of this thing, called love?

And so he strode for hours, reasoning things out. But he knew that for
his nature there could be no love without desire--and no desire without
love. And then his conversation with Francis Markrute came back to him,
the day they had lunched in the city, when the financier had given his
views about women.

Yes, they were right, those views. A woman, to be dangerous, must appeal
to both the body and brain of a man. If his feeling for Zara were only
for the body then it was true that it was only lust.

But it was _not_ true; and he thought of all his dreams of her at
Wrayth, of the pictures he had drawn of their future life together, of
the tenderness with which he had longed for this night.

And then his anger died down and was replaced by a passionate grief.

His dream lay in ruins, and there was nothing to look forward to but a
blank, soulless life. It did not seem to him then, in the cold
moonlight, that things could ever come right. He could not for his
pride's sake condescend to any further explanation with her. He would
not stoop to defend himself; she must think what she chose, until she
should of herself find out the truth.

And then his level mind turned and tried to see her point of view. He
must not be unjust. And he realized that if she thought such base things
of him she had been more or less right. But, even so, there was some
mystery beyond all this--some cruel and oppressing dark shadow in her
life.

And his thoughts went back to the night they had first met, and he
remembered then that her eyes had been full of hate--resentment and
hate--as though he, personally, had caused her some injury.

Francis Markrute was so very clever: what plan had he had in his head?
By what scorpion whip had he perhaps forced her to consent to his wishes
and become his--Tristram's--wife? And once more the disturbing
remembrance of Mimo returned, so that, when at last dawn came and he
went back to the hotel, tired out in body and soul, it would not let him
rest in his bed. His bed--in the next room his wife!

But one clear decision he had come to. He would treat her with cold
courtesy, and they would play the game. To part now, in a dramatic
manner, the next day after the wedding, was n