He would return and see his wife and tell her that now they must part, that he knew of her past and he would trouble her no more.

He would not make her any reproaches, for of what use?
And, besides, she had suffered enough.

He would go abroad at once, and see his mother for a day at Cannes, and tell her his arrangements, and that Zara and he had agreed to part--he would give her no further explanations--and then he would go on to India and Japan.
And, after this, his plans were vague.

It seemed as if life were too impossible to look ahead, but not until he could think of Zara with calmness would he return to England.
And if Zara's week of separation from him had been grief and suffering, his had been hell.
On the Saturday morning, after her uncle had started for Dover, a note, sent by hand, was brought to Zara.

It was again only a few words, merely to say if it was convenient to her, he--Tristram--would come at two o'clock, as he was motoring down to Wrayth at three, and was leaving England on Monday night.
Her hand trembled too much to write an answer.
"Tell the messenger I will be here," she said; and she sat then for a long time, staring in front of her.
Then a thought came to her.