Tristram felt his heart stop beating for a second--strong man as he was. _Miladi_ had not come in!--But as they spoke, he perceived her on the landing below, hurrying up--she had not waited to get the lift--and he went down to meet her, while Henriette returned to her room. "Where have you been?" he demanded, with a pale, stern face. He was too angry and suspicious to let her pass in silence, and he noticed her cheeks were flushed with nervous excitement and that she was out of breath; and no wonder, for she had run up the stairs. "I cannot wait to tell you now," she panted. "And what right have you to speak to me so? Let me pass, or I shall be late." "I do not care if you are late, or no. You shall answer me!" he said furiously, barring the way. "You bear my name, at all events, and I have a right because of that to know." "Your name?" she said, vaguely, and then for the first time she grasped that there was some insulting doubt of her in his words. She cast upon him a look of withering scorn, and, with the air of an empress commanding an insubordinate guard, she flashed: "Let me pass at once!" But Tristram did not move, and for a second they glared at one another, and she took a step forward as if to force her way. Then he angrily seized her in his arms. But at that moment Francis Markrute came out of his room and Tristram let her go--panting. He could not make a scene, and she went on, with her head set haughtily, to her room. "I see you have been quarreling again," her uncle said, rather irritably: and then he laughed as he went down. "I expect she will be late," he continued; "well, if she is not in the hall at five minutes to eight, I shall go on." And Tristram sat down upon the deep sofa on the broad landing outside her room, and waited: the concentrated essence of all the rage and pain he had yet suffered seemed to be now in his heart. But what had it meant--that look of superb scorn? She had no mien of a guilty person. At six minutes to eight she opened the door, and came out. She had simply flown into her clothes, in ten minutes! Her eyes were still black as night with resentment, and her bosom rose and fell, while in her white cheeks two scarlet spots flamed. "I am ready," she said, haughtily, "let us go," and not waiting for her husband she swept on down the stairs, exactly as her uncle opened the library door. "Well done, my punctual niece!" he cried genially. "You are a woman of your word." "In all things," she answered, fiercely, and went towards the door, where the electric brougham waited. And both men as they followed her wondered what she could mean. CHAPTER XXXVIII The dinner for Ethelrida's betrothal resembled in no way the one for Zara and Tristram; for, except in those two hearts there was no bitter strain, and the fiancés in this case were radiantly happy, which they could not conceal, and did not try to.