“What an exquisite place!” he exclaimed.  “It reminds me of Arranstoun, does it not you, Henry?—­although that is not near the sea.”

The color deepened in Sabine’s cheeks—­had she unconsciously made it resemble that place?  She did not know, and the suggestion struck her with surprise.

Michael had recognized her of course, she saw that, but he was a gentleman and intended to play the game.  That was an immense relief.  She could allow herself to look at him critically now—­not with just the cursory glance she had bestowed upon Henry’s friend at first—­for he had turned and was talking to Madame Imogen whom Sabine had signed to pour out the tea—­she was not sure if her own hand might not have shaken a little and it were wiser to take no risks.

He was horribly good-looking—­that jumped to the eye—­and with a careless, indifferent grace—­five years had only matured and increased his attractions.  He had “it”—­manifesting in every part of him and his atmosphere!  A magnetism, a hateful, odious power which she felt, and fiercely resented.  He had recovered completely from whatever shock he had felt upon seeing her it would seem! for his face looked absolutely unconcerned now and perfectly at ease.

She called all her forces together and played the part of the radiant, well-mannered hostess, being even extra sweet and charming to Henry, who was in the seventh heaven in consequence.  The dreaded introduction of his too-fascinating friend at Heronac had passed off well and his adored lady did not seem to be taking any notice of him.

Michael did not seek by word or look to engage her in personal conversation; if he had really been a stranger who did not even find his hostess fair, he could not have been more casual or less impressed.  And all the while his pulses were bounding and he was growing more and more filled with astonishment and emotion.

At last a thought came.  Why, of course!  Henry had told her he was coming, so she had expected the meeting and had had time to school herself to act!  But this straw was not long vouchsafed him, and then stupefaction set in, for Henry chanced to say: 

“You must forgive me for not having time to write you my friend’s name in my postscript, the post was off that minute—­you had to take him on trust!”

“I do not know that I even caught it just now!” Sabine returned archly.  “Mr. ——?”

And Henry, engaged for a moment taking a second cup of tea from Madame Imogen’s fat hand, Michael answered for him, looking straight into her eyes: 

“Michael Howard Arranstoun of Arranstoun over the border in Scotland—­like Gretna Green.”

“How romantic that sounds,” Madame Imogen chimed in.  “Why, it’s a name fit for a stage play I do think.  A party of my friends visited that very castle only last fall.  Mrs. Howard dear, it’s as well known as the Trossachs to investigators of the antique!”

“Wonderfully interesting!” Sabine remarked blandly—­putting more sugar in her tea—­at which Michael’s eyebrows raised themselves in a whimsical way—­back had rushed to him the recollection that on the only occasion they had ever drunk tea together before, she had said that she liked “lumps and lumps of it!”