“The child is not herself,” he thought.  “It is possible that this Englishman may mean a great deal to her—­but he is of the gentle type, not of the sort one would believe to make strong passions—­no—­now if it had been the other one—­the friend—­that one could have seen some light through—­a young man well able to fill the heart of any woman—­a fine young man, a splendid young man—­but yes.”

Madame Imogen made no reflections, she was too delighted with their gay repast, and helped with her jolly wit to keep the ball rolling.

Henry felt slightly intoxicated with happiness—­while in Michael, passions of various sorts were rising, against his will.

A devil was in Sabine—­never had she been so alluring, so feminine, so completely removed from her usual grave, indifferent self.

She did not look at Michael once or vouchsafe him any conversation beyond what cordial politeness compelled.  It was to Pere Anselme that she almost made love, with shy sallies at Henry, and merry replies to Madame Imogen.  But her whole atmosphere was radiating with provoking fascination—­and as they all rose from table she took Lord Fordyce’s arm.

“In England, I hear you men remain in the dining room to drink all sorts of ports—­but here in my France we expect you to be sociable and come with us at once—­you may smoke where you choose.”

Henry could not refrain from caressing with his other hand the little cold one lying on his arm as they walked along—­while he whispered with passionate devotion: 

“My darling, darling girl!”

“Hush!” she answered nervously.  “Your friend will hear!”

“And if he does! what matter, dearest—­he knows that I love you, and that as soon as you are free you are going to be my wife.”

There must have been a slight roughness in the carpet which slid upon the slippery floor, for the Dame d’Heronac stumbled a little and then gasped: 

“He—­knows that——!”

And by the time they all reached the salon, her rosy cheeks were pale, while the pupils of her violet eyes were so large as to make them appear to be black as night.

The gay sprite of the dinner-table seemed to have taken her departure and a dignified and serious hostess filled her place.  A hostess who discoursed of gardens, and architecture, and such subjects—­and at ten o’clock when the Pere Anselme gave his blessing and wished the company good-night, also gave a white hand to her guests, saying that Madame Imogen would show them the small salon where they could smoke and have their drinks before retiring to their rooms, then she bowed to them and walked off slowly to her part of the house.

When she had gone, Michael said a little hoarsely to Henry: 

“I have got the fiend of a headache, old man.  I think I won’t smoke, but turn in at once.”

An hour or two later, when the whole chateau was wrapped in darkness—­the mistress of it crept from her bed-room to the great sitting-room, and turning on the light, she unlocked a blue despatch-box which stood beside her writing-table.  From this she took a letter, marked a little with former perusals—­and she read it over once more from beginning to end.