“Nothing can take you from me, Henry—­unless something goes wrong about the divorce.  My lawyer arrives in England to-day from America on purpose to consult me and see what can be done to hasten matters.  My—­husband—­has not as yet started the proceedings it seems.”

Lord Fordyce’s face paled.

“Does that mean anything sinister, dearest?” he demanded, with a quiver in his cultivated voice.  “Sabine, you would tell me, would you not, if there were anything to fear?”

“I do not myself know what it means—­I may have some news to-morrow—­let us forget about it to-night.  Oh!  I want to be happy just for to-night, Henry!” and she held out her hand again pleadingly.

“Indeed, you shall be, darling,” and splendid and unselfish gentleman that he was, he crushed down his anguish, and used all his clever brain to divert and entertain her, and presently all the women went up to dress for dinner and the ball, and Lord Fordyce found Michael in the smoking-room.  He had really a deep affection for him; he had known him ever since he was an absolutely fearless, dare-devil little boy, the joy and pride of his father, Henry’s old friend, and in spite of the full ten years’ difference in their ages, they had ever been closest allies until their break at Arranstoun, and then Michael’s five years abroad had made a gap, bridged over now since his return.  Lord Fordyce felt that Michael’s intense vitality and radiating magnetism would be refreshing in the depressed state into which his lady love’s words had thrown him, and he drew him over with him, and they sat down in two big chairs apart from the rest of the festive groups—­some playing bridge or billiards.  Michael was in no gentle temper, and Henry was the last person he wished to talk to.  He knew he ought not to have come, he knew that he ought to tell Henry straight out and then go off before the ball.  He felt he was behaving like the most despicable coward; and yet, if it were possible for Henry never to know that he, Michael, was Sabine’s husband, it would save his friend much pain.  He was smarting under Sabine’s insolent dismissal of him, and burning with jealousy over that witnessed caress, the violent passions of his race were surging up and causing a devil of recklessness to show in his very handsome face.  Lord Fordyce saw that something had disturbed him.

“What’s up, Michael, old boy?” he asked.  “I haven’t seen you look so like Black James since you got Violet Hatfield’s letter and did not see how you could get out of marrying her.”

Black James was a famous Arranstoun of the Court of James IV of Scotland, whose exploits had been the terror and admiration of the whole country, and who was even yet a byword for recklessness and savagery.

Michael laughed.

“Poor old Violet!” he said.  “She will soon be bringing out her daughter.  I saw her the other day in London; she cut me dead!”

“That was an escape!” and Henry lit a cigar.  “However, as you know, a year after weeping crocodile tears for poor Maurice, she married young Layard of Balmayn.  So all’s well that ends well.  She and Rose have never spoken since the scene when Violet read in the Scotsman that you had got married!”