Then Tristram leant his head upon his hands and tried to think.
He was in a maze--and there seemed no way out.

If he went to her now and demanded to have everything explained he might have some awful confirmation of his suspicions, and then how could they go through to-morrow--and the town's address?
Of all things he had no right--just because of his wild passion in marrying this foreign woman--he had no right to bring disgrace and scandal upon his untarnished name: "noblesse oblige" was the motto graven on his soul.

No, he must bear it until Friday night after the Glastonbury House dinner.

Then he would face her and demand the truth.
And Zara under the wing of Mrs.Anglin made a thorough tour of the beautiful, old house.

She saw its ancient arras hangings, and panellings of carved oak, and heard all the traditions, and looked at the portraits--many so wonderfully like Tristram, for they were a strong, virile race--and her heart ached, and swelled with pride, alternately.
And, last of all, she stood under the portrait that had been painted by Sargent, of her husband at his coming of age, and that master of art had given him, on the canvas, his very soul.