Mirko had written out the score of the air which _Maman_ always came and taught him, and he was longing to play it to his dear Papa and his Cherisette, the letter ended with.
And the pathos of it all caused Zara a sharp pain.

She did not dare to look ahead, as far as her little brother was concerned.

Indeed, to look ahead, in any case, meant nothing very happy.
She was just going up the great staircase at about a quarter to eleven, with the letter in her hand, when she met Tristram coming from his room, with his shooting boots on, ready to start.

He stopped and said coldly--they had not spoken a word yet that day-- "You had better be quick putting your things on.

My uncle always starts punctually." Then his eye caught the foreign writing on the letter, and he turned brusquely away, although, as he reasoned with himself a moment afterwards, it was ridiculous of him to be so moved, because she would naturally have a number of foreign correspondents.