"What can it be ?" She tore off the wrapping.

As it fell to the floor, a long tress of silky black hair fell with it, and she held in her hand a miniature painted on ivory.

A girlish face of exquisite beauty, dusky as the face of an Indian queen, looked up at her, fresh and bright as thirty years before.

No need to look at the words on the reverse--"My peerless Zenith"-- to know who it was; the wife's jealousy told her at the first glance.
"And all these years he has kept this," she said, between her set teeth, "while he pretended he loved only me! 'My peerless Zenith!' Yes, she is beautiful as the fabled houris of the Mussulman's paradise.
Well, I will keep it in my turn.

Who knows what end it may serve yet ?" She picked up the tress of hair, and enveloped all in the silver paper once more.