Zara rose as he advanced, and bowed to him. She did not offer to shake hands, and he let his, which he had half outstretched, drop. She did not help him at all; she remained perfectly silent, as usual. She did not even look at him, but straight out of the window into the pouring rain, and it was then he saw that her eyes were not black but slate. "You understand why I have come, of course?" he said by way of a beginning. "Yes," she replied and said nothing more. "I want to marry you, you know," he went on. "Really!" she said. "Yes, I do." And he set his teeth--certainly she was difficult! "That is fortunate for you, since you are going to do so." This was not encouraging; it was also unexpected. "Yes, I am," he answered, "on the 25th of October, with your permission." "I have already consented." And she clasped her hands. "May I sit down beside you and talk?" he asked. She pointed to a Louis XVI. _bergère_ which stood opposite, and herself took a small armchair at the other side of the fire. So they sat down, she gazing into the blazing coals and he gazing at her. She was facing the gloomy afternoon light, though she did not think out these things like her uncle, so he had a clear and wonderful picture of her. "How could so voluptuous looking a creature be so icily cold?" he wondered. Her wonderful hair seemed burnished like dark copper, in the double light of fire and day, and that gardenia skin looked fit to eat. He was thrilled with a mad desire to kiss her; he had never felt so strong an emotion towards a woman in his life. "Your uncle tells me you are going away to-morrow, and that you will be away until a week before our wedding. I wish you were not going to be, but I suppose you must--for clothes and things." "Yes, I must." He got up; he could not sit still, he was too wildly excited; he stood leaning on the mantelpiece, quite close to her, for a moment, his eyes devouring her with the passionate admiration he felt. She glanced up, and when she saw their expression her jet brows met, while a look of infinite disgust crept over her face. So it had come--so soon! He was just like all men--a hateful, sensual beast. She knew he desired to kiss her--to kiss a person he did not know! Her experience of life had not encouraged her to make the least allowance for the instinct of man. For her, that whole side of human beings was simply revolting. In the far back recesses of her mind she knew and felt that caresses and such things might be good if one loved--passionately loved--but in the abstract, just because of the attraction of sex, they were hideous. No man had ever had the conceded tip of her little finger, although she had been forced to submit to unspeakable exhibitions of passion from Ladislaus, her husband. For her, Tristram appeared a satyr, but she was no timid nymph, but a fierce panther ready to defend herself! He saw her look and drew back--cooled.