me pain."

Ethelrida was so moved by some new, sudden and exquisite emotion that
she could not reply for a moment. He watched her with growing and
passionate delight, but he said nothing. He must give her time.

"It is too, too nice of you," she said softly, and there was a little
catch in her breath. "No one has ever thought of anything so exquisite
for me before, although, as you saw this morning, every one is so very
kind. How shall I thank you, Mr. Markrute? I do not know."

"You must not thank me at all, you gracious lady," he said. "And now I
must tell you that the half-hour is nearly up, and we must go down.
But--may I--will you let me come again, perhaps to-morrow afternoon? I
want to tell you, if it would interest you, the history of a man."

Ethelrida had turned to look at the clock, also, and had collected
herself. She was too single-minded to fence now, or to push this new,
strange joy out of her life, so she said,

"When the others go out for a walk, then, after lunch, yes, you may
come."

And without anything further, they left the room. At the turn in the
corridor to the other part of the house, he bent suddenly; and with deep
homage kissed her hand, then let her pass on, while he turned to the
right and disappeared towards the wing, where was his room.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Zara had, at first, thought she would not go out with the shooters. She
felt numb, as if she could not pluck up enough courage to make
conversation with any one. She had received a letter from Mimo, by the
second post, with all details of what he had heard of Mirko. Little
Agatha, the Morleys' child, was to return home the following day; and
Mirko himself had written an excited little letter to announce this
event, which Mimo enclosed. He seemed perfectly well then, only at the
end, as she would see, he had said he was dreaming of _Maman_ every
night; and Mimo knew that this must mean he was a little feverish again,
so he had felt it wiser to telegraph. Mirko had written out the score of
the air which _Maman_ always came and taught him, and he was longing to
play it to his dear Papa and his Cherisette, the letter ended with.

And the pathos of it all caused Zara a sharp pain. She did not dare to
look ahead, as far as her little brother was concerned. Indeed, to look
ahead, in any case, meant nothing very happy.

She was just going up the great staircase at about a quarter to eleven,
with the letter in her hand, when she m