Zara's eyes haunt me now in the same way."

"She never had any children, I suppose?" asked Lady Anningford.

"Never that I heard of--and she is so young; only twenty-three now."

"Well, it is too tragic! And what is to be done? Can't you ask the
uncle? He must know."

"I did, to-night, Anne--and he answered, so strangely, that 'yes, there
was something which at times troubled her, but it would pass.'"

"Good gracious!" said Anne. "It can't be a hallucination. She is not
crazy, is she? That would be worse than anything."

"Oh, no!" cried Ethelrida, aghast. "It is not that in the least, thank
goodness!"

"Then perhaps there are some terrible scenes, connected with her first
husband's murder, which she can't forget. The Crow told me Count Shulski
was shot at Monte Carlo, in a fray of some sort."

"That must be it, of course!" said Ethelrida, much relieved. "Then she
will get over it in time. And surely Tristram will be able to make her
love him, and forget them. I do feel better about it now, Anne, and
shall be able to sleep in peace."

So they said good night, and separated--comforted.

But the object of their solicitude did not attempt to get into her bed
when she had dismissed her maid. She sat down in one of the big gilt
William-and-Mary armchairs, and clasped her hands tightly, and tried to
think.

Things were coming to a crisis with her. Destiny had given her another
cross to bear, for suddenly this evening, as the Duke spoke of his wife,
she had become conscious of the truth about herself: she was in love
with her husband. And she herself had made it impossible that he could
ever come back to her. For, indeed, the tables were turned, with one of
those ironical twists of Fate.

And she questioned herself--Why did she love him? She had reproached him
on her wedding night, when he had told her he loved her, because in her
ignorance she felt then it could only be a question of sense. She had
called him an animal! she remembered; and now she had become an animal
herself! For she could prove no loftier motive for her emotion towards
him than he had had for her then: they knew one another no better. It
had not been possible for her passion to have arisen from the reasons
she remembered having hurled at him as the only ones from which true
love could spring, namely, knowledge, and tenderness, and devotion. It
was all untrue; she understood it now. Love--deep and tender--could leap
into being from the glance