He told them all the news that had happened during the week--Was it only a week--Zara and Tristram both thought! How there were rumors that in the coming spring there might be a general election, and that the Radicals were making fresh plots to ruin the country; but there was to be no autumn session, and, as usual, the party to which they all had the honor to belong was half asleep.
And then the two men grew deep in a political discussion, so as soon as Zara had eaten her peach she said she would leave them to their talk, and say "Good night," as she was tired out.
"Yes, my niece," said her uncle who had risen.

And he did what he had not done since she was a child, he stooped and kissed her white forehead.

"Yes, indeed, you must go and rest.

We both want you to do us justice to-morrow, don't we, Tristram?
We must have our special lady looking her best." And she smiled a faint smile as she passed from the room.
"By George! my dear boy," the financier went on, "I don't believe I ever realized what a gorgeously beautiful creature my niece is.

She is like some wonderful exotic blossom--a mass of snow and flame!" And Tristram said with unconscious cynicism, "Certainly snow--but where is the flame ?" Francis Markrute looked at him out of the corners of his clever eyes.
She had been icy to him in Paris, then! But his was not the temperament to interfere.