Paris was much better--they could go to the theater there--because he knew it would not all be plain sailing by any means! And every time he thought of that aspect, his keen, blue eyes sparkled with the instinct of the chase and he looked the image of the Baron Tancred who, carved in stone, with his Crusader's crossed feet, reposed in state in the church of Wrayth.
A lissom, wiry, splendid English aristocrat, in perfect condition and health, was Tristram Guiscard, twenty-fourth Baron Tancred, as he lounged in his chair before the fire and dreamed of his lady and his fate.
And when they were used to one another--at the end of the week--there would be the party at Montfitchet where he would have the joy and pride of showing his beautiful wife--and Laura would be there;--he suddenly thought of her.

Poor old Laura! she had been awfully nice about it and had written him the sweetest letter.

He would not have believed her capable of it--and he felt so kindly disposed towards her--little as she deserved it if he had only known! Then when these gayeties were over, he and Zara would come here to Wrayth! And he could not help picturing how he would make love to her in this romantic setting; and perhaps soon she, too, would love him.

When he got thus far in his picturings he would shut his eyes, stretch out his long limbs, and call to Jake, his solemn bulldog, and pat his wrinkled head.
And Zara, in Paris, was more tranquil in mind than was her wont.

Mirko had not made much difficulty about going to Bournemouth.