Tristram saw her look of anxiety and strain, and smiled grimly to himself.

She would get no answering telegram from her lover that day! And, worn out with the whole thing, Zara turned to him and asked if it would matter or look unusual if she said--what was true--that she was so fatigued she would like to go to bed and not have to come down to dinner.
"I will not do so, if it would not be in the game," she said.
And he answered, shortly: "The game is over, to-night: do as you please." So she went off sadly, and did not see him again until they were ready to start in the morning--the Friday morning, which Tristram called the beginning of the end! He had arranged that they should go by train, and not motor up, as he usually did because he loved motoring; but the misery of being so close to her, even now when he hoped he loathed and despised her, was too great to chance.

So, early after lunch, they started, and would be at Park Lane after five.

No telegram had come for Zara--Mimo must be away--but, in any case, it indicated nothing unusual was happening, unless he had been called to Bournemouth by Mirko himself and had left hurriedly.

This idea so tortured her that by the time she got to London she could not bear it, and felt she must go to Neville Street and see.
But how to get away?
Francis Markrute was waiting for them in the library, and seemed so full of the exuberance of happiness that she could not rush off until she had poured out and pretended to enjoy a lengthy tea.
And the change in the reserved man struck them both.