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Updated: May 7, 2025
Mimo could be a delightfully agreeable guest, even though he was changed by years and poverty. And Mirko would be in healthy surroundings; surely it was worth it, after all! The taxi drew up in the mean street and she got out, paid the man, and then knocked at the dingy door. A slatternly, miserable, little general servant opened it.
For Mirko had opened his piteous eyes again, and whispered in little gasps: "Papa play to me the air Mamam loved. I can see her blue gauze wings!" And in a moment, as his face filled with the radiance of his vision he fell back, dead, into Zara's arms.
She was past tears now, but her voice sounded strange with the tragedy in it. "Mirko is dead, Uncle Francis," was all she said. "He ran away from Bournemouth because Agatha, the Morleys' child, broke his violin. He loved it, you know Maman had given it to him.
Then she turned to go, but he arrested her. "In two or three years' time you will admit to me that you know of four human beings who are ideally happy." And with this enigmatic announcement ringing in her ears, she went on up the stairs to her sitting-room. Who were the four people? Herself and himself and Mimo and Mirko?
And here she dismissed her maid, and remained looking out on the night. The mist had gone and some pure, fair stars shone out. Was that where Maman was up there? And was Mirko going to her soon, away out of this cruel world of sorrow and pain? As he had once said, surely there, there would be room for them both.
For she was quite aware that just money, for him to live, now that it was not a question of the welfare of Mirko, he would never accept from her. In such unpractical, sentimental ways does breeding show itself in some weak natures!
A towel soaked with blood had fallen to the floor, and lay there, a ghastly evidence of the "broken vessel" Jenny had spoken of. Mimo, with his tall, military figure shaking with dry sobs, stood on the other side, and Zara murmured in a tender voice of anguish: "My little one! My Mirko!"
He then offered her his protection and a home, if she would sever all connection with the two, Mimo and Mirko, and she had indignantly refused.
Zara had accepted everything without protest. She had not desired even to see Mirko once more. She had no morbid fancies; it was his soul she loved and remembered, not the poor little suffering body. It came to her as a comfort that her uncle and Mimo had met and shaken hands in forgiveness, and now poor Mimo was coming to say good-bye to her that afternoon.
She remembered how she had been angered and up in arms then, and now a whole education had passed over her, and she fully understood and sympathized with their point of view. And at this stage of her meditations her eyes grew misty as they gazed into distance, and all soft; and the divine expression of the Sistine Madonna grew in them, as it grew always when she held Mirko in her arms.
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