But even with this comforting reflection, he gives a little start at luncheon when he sees one chair empty, and hears Trixy whisper to her sister, “Gabrielle is so queer to-day, queerer than usual. I really think she’s going off her head.” Later on, at dinner, come Miss Beranger’s excuses. “Gabrielle is not very well, and cannot come down,” Lady Beranger remarks indifferently, going on with her _potage à la Reine_, and Lord Delaval makes a tolerable meal--drinks a little more than usual, but not too much (wine bibbing is not one of his faults), laughs and talks a little nervously, and even is slightly _distrait_, while Zai sings in her fresh sweet soprano a bit of Swinburne, set to pathetic music-- “If I could but know after all, I might cease to hunger and ache, Though your heart were ever so small, If it were not a stone or a snake.” He seems to look past her dainty chesnut-crowned head, as he listens to these words, at Gabrielle--Gabrielle, with her wild wet eyes, her white passion-tossed features, her clinging arms and bitter reproach. All night long, through his sleep, they come back to him, and will not be thrust away. Once more, at breakfast, the empty chair faces him, and in spite of himself he says to his hostess, “I hope Miss Beranger is better to-day?” “Yes! I think so,” Lady Beranger answers; “at any rate, well enough to travel. Gabrielle went off by the early train to Southampton, I believe, didn’t she, Trixy?” “I think so, mamma; at least, Fanchette told me. She has gone, but she never said good-bye.” “Ah! just like her,” Lady Beranger observes, carelessly. “Gabrielle is so queer, so _bizarre_, you know.” And she takes another help of _fillet de sole_, and gives no further thought to her stepdaughter. “Will you come out on the lawn, the morning is perfect?” Lord Delaval says to Zai, when they make a move from the table, and she, who has determined to love him and obey him, turns up a fair sweet face, and smiling, runs away for her hat. He looks after her slender figure with visible admiration in his eyes. Zai is his beau ideal, _pro tem._ of womankind. “Don’t be long away,” he calls, softly; and he longs to have her with him, where, sending the _convenances au diable_, he can gaze his fill on her beauty, and kiss her to his heart’s content. “A letter for you! my lord.” He starts and stammers as he asks: “For me?” And, as he takes the sealed missive in his hand, a sort of foreboding makes him pale and shrink from opening it. He even forgets to wait for Zai, but walks out of the house, and down towards the far end of the grounds, before he breaks the seal.