He obeyed her commands, and also drew the silk blinds.

“Now, indeed, we are happy; at least, I am,” he said.

Lady Ethelrida leant back on her muslin embroidered cushion and prepared herself to listen with a rapt face.

Francis Markrute stood by the fire for a while, and began from there: 

“You must go right back with me to early days, Sweet Lady,” he said, “to a palace in a gloomy city and to an artiste—­a ballet-dancer—­but at the same time a great musicienne and a good and beautiful woman, a woman with red, splendid hair, like my niece.  There she lived in a palace in this city, away from the world with her two children; an Emperor was her lover and her children’s father; and they all four were happy as the day was long.  The children were a boy and a girl, and presently they began to grow up, and the boy began to think about life and to reason things out with himself.  He had, perhaps, inherited this faculty from his grandfather, on his mother’s side, who was a celebrated poet and philosopher and a Spanish Jew.  So his mother, the beautiful dancer, was half Jewess, and, from her mother again, half Spanish noble; for this philosopher had eloped with the daughter of a Spanish grandee, and she was erased from the roll.  I go back this far not to weary you, but that you may understand what forces in race had to do with the boy’s character.  The daughter again of this pair became an artist and a dancer, and being a highly educated, as well as a superbly beautiful woman—­a woman with all Zara’s charm and infinitely more chiseled features—­she won the devoted love of the Emperor of the country in which they lived.  I will not go into the moral aspect of the affair.  A great love recks not of moral aspects.  Sufficient to say, they were ideally happy while the beautiful dancer lived.  She died when the boy was about fifteen, to his great and abiding grief.  His sister, who was a year or two younger than he, was then all he had to love, because political and social reasons in that country made it very difficult, about this time, for him often to see his father, the Emperor.

“The boy was very carefully educated, and began early, as I have told you, to think for himself and to dream.  He dreamed of things which might have been, had he been the heir and son of the Empress, instead of the child of her who seemed to him so much the greater lady and queen, his own mother, the dancer; and he came to see that dreams that are based upon regrets are useless and only a factor in the degradation, not the uplifting of a man.  The boy grew to understand that from that sweet mother, even though the world called her an immoral woman, he had inherited something much more valuable to himself than the Imperial crown—­the faculty of perception and balance, physical and moral, to which the family of the Emperor, his father, could lay no claim.  From them, both he and his sister had inherited a stubborn, indomitable pride.  You can see it, and have already remarked it, in Zara—­that sister’s child.