She was silent at the instant, and a look of superb pride and disdain was on her face.
Almost before she was aware of it Ethelrida had exclaimed: "Your niece looks like an empress, a wonderful, Byzantine, Roman empress!" Francis Markrute glanced at her, sideways, with his clever eyes; had she ever heard anything of Zara's parentage, he wondered for a second, and then he smiled at himself for the thought.

Lady Ethelrida was not likely to have spoken so in that case--she would not be acting up to her group.
"There are certain reasons why she should," he said.

"I cannot answer for the part of her which comes from her father, Maurice Grey, a very old English family, I believe, but on her mother's side she could have the passions of an artist and the pride of a Caesar: she is a very interesting case." "May I know something of her ?" Ethelrida said, "I do so want them to be happy.

Tristram is one of the simplest and finest characters I have ever met.

He will love her very much, I fear." "Why do you say you _fear ?_" Lady Ethelrida reddened a little; a soft, warm flush came into her delicate face and made it look beautiful: she never spoke of love--to men.
"Because a great love is a very powerful and sometimes a terrible thing, if it is not returned in like measure.