This brought some comfort.

“Why, of course! we can get a divorce—­as soon as we want.  Moravia had an aunt, who simply went to Sioux Falls and got one at once and married someone else, so it’s not the least trouble.  Oh, I am glad you have thought of this plan.  It is clever of you!”

Mr. Arranstoun felt that he was becoming rather too interested in his—­fiancee and time was passing.  Her family might discover where she was—­or Henry might return; he must clinch matters finally.

“I think we must come to business details now,” he said.  “Had you not better write a letter to Mr. Parsons that I could take, stating your wishes; and will you also write down upon another piece of paper all the details of your name, age—­and so forth——­”

He now showed her his writing-table and gave her paper and pens to choose from.

She sat down gravely, and put her hands to her head as one thinking hard.  Then she began rapidly to write—­while Mr. Arranstoun watched her from the hearth-rug, to where he had retired.

She evidently wrote out the statistics required first, and then began her letter.  And at last she turned a rogue’s face with a perplexed frown on it, while she bit her pen.

“How do you spell indigenous, please?”

He started forward.

“’Indigenous’?—­what a grand word!—­i-n-d-i-g-e-n-o-u-s.”

“One has to be grand when writing business letters,” she told him, condescendingly, and then finished her missive.

“There—­that will do!  Now listen!”

She got up and stood with the sheet in her hand, and read off the remarkable document without worrying much about stops or commas.

     “Dear Mr. Parsons: 

“Papa said I could marry who I wanted to provided that he was decent, so please give your written consent to the grand seigneur who brings this.  His name is Arranstoun, and he is indigenous to this Castle, and really an aristocrat who papa and mamma would have approved of, although he unfortunately has no title——­”

“I had to put in that, you see,” and she looked up explainingly, “because it sounds so ordinary if he’d never heard of Arranstoun—­we wouldn’t have, only Uncle Mortimer was looking out for old ruins to visit—­well,” and she continued her recital, while Michael lowered his head to hide the smile in his eyes.

“We wish to get married on Thursday so please be quick about the consent, as Uncle Mortimer wants me to marry his nephew, Samuel Greenbank, who I hate.  Agree, sir, the expression of my sentiments, the most distinguished

“Sabine Delburg.”

     “P.S.  I will want all my money, 50,000 dollars a year I believe it
     is, on Friday morning.”

Then she looked up with pride.

“Don’t you think that will do?”

Michael was overcome—­his voice shook with enchanted mirth.