she was prepared to carry out.  She firmly and determinedly banished all thought of Michael from her mind, and hardly ever went into the garden summer-house—­because, when she did, she saw him too plainly standing there in his white flannels, with the sprig of her lavender in his coat and his bold blue eyes looking up at her with their horribly powerful charm.  The force of will can do such wonders that, as the days went on, the pain and unrest of her hours lessened in a great degree.

Every morning there came an adoring letter from Henry, in which he never said too much or too little, but everything that could excite her cultivated intelligence and refresh her soul.  In all the after years of her life, whatever might befall her, these letters of Henry’s would have a lasting influence upon her.  They polished and moulded her taste; and put her on her mettle to answer them, and gradually they grew to be an absorbing interest.  He selected the books she was to read, and sent her boxes of them.  It had been agreed before he left that he would not return to Heronac for some time; but that in late October, when the Princess and Mr. Cloudwater got back to Paris, that if they could be persuaded to come to London, Sabine would accompany them, and make the acquaintance of Henry’s mother and some of his family—­who would be in ignorance of there being any tie between them, and the whole thing could be done casually and with good sense.

“I want my mother and my sisters to love you, darling,” Henry wrote, “without a prejudiced eye.  My mother would find you perfect, whatever you were like, if she knew that you were my choice—­and for the same reason my sisters would perhaps find fault with you; so I want you to make their conquest without any handicap.”

Sabine, writing one of her long letters to Moravia in Italy, said: 

I am very happy, Morri.  This calm Englishman is teaching me such a number of new aspects of life, and making me more determined than ever to be a very great lady in the future.  We are so clever in our nation, and all the young vitality in us is so splendid, when it is directed and does not turn to nerves and fads.  I am growing so much finer, my dear, under his guidance.  You will know me when we meet—­because each day I grow more to understand.

The Pere Anselme had only one moment of doubt again, just the last morning before his Dame d’Heronac left for Paris when October had come.  It was raining hard, and he found her in the great sitting-room with a legal-looking document in her hand.  Her face was very pale, and lying on the writing-table beside her was an envelope directed and stamped.

It contained her refusal to return to her husband signed and sealed.

The old priest did not ask her any questions; he guessed, and sympathized.

But his lady was too restless to begin their reading, and stole from window to window looking out on the gray sea.