over himself, for propinquity and the night were exciting influence, and the cruel fact remained that it was too late in any case.  Henry’s words this afternoon had cast the die forever; he—­Michael—­could not for any personal happiness be so hideously cruel to his old friend.  Better put a bullet through his own brain than that.  Whatever should develop on this night, and he meant to continue the conversation as it should seem best to him, and if she fenced too daringly with him to take the button off the foils—­but whatever should come of it it should not be allowed to alter his intention of to-morrow instructing his lawyers in Edinburgh to begin divorce proceedings at once.  He was like a gambler who has lost his last stake, and who still means to take what joy of life he can before the black to-morrow dawns.  So, in the ten minutes or so while Sabine had turned from him, he laid his plans.  He would see how much he could make her feel.  He would dance with her later and then say a final farewell.  If she were hurt, too, he must not care—­she had made the barrier of her own free will.  The person who was blameless and should not suffer was Henry.  Then he began to look at Sabine furtively, and caught the outline of her sweet, averted head.  How irresistibly attractive she was!  The exact type he admired; not too intellectual-looking, just soft and round and babyish; there was one little curl on her snowy nuque that he longed to kiss there and then.  What a time she was talking to the other man!  He would not bear it!

And Sabine, while she apparently listened to her neighbor, had not the remotest idea of what he said.  The whole of her being was thrilling with some strange and powerful emotion, which almost made her feel faint—­she could not have swallowed a morsel of food, and simply played with her fork.

At the first possible pause, Michael addressed her again: 

“Since you knew the lady in life who is now my ghost—­and she told you of Binko—­did she not say anything else about her visit to Arranstoun or its master?”

“Nothing—­it was all apparently a blank horror, and she probably wanted to forget it and him.”

“He made some kind of an impression upon her, then—­good or bad, since she wanted to forget him—­” eagerly.

Sabine admitted to herself that the umpires might have called “touche” for this.

“It would seem so,” she allowed, with what she thought was generosity.

“That is better than only creating indifference.”

“Yes—­the indifference came later.”

“One expected that; but there was a time, you have inferred, when she felt something.  What was it?  Can’t you tell me?”

Excitement was rising high now in both of them, and the grouse on their plates remained almost untasted.

“At first, she did not know herself, I think; but afterwards, when she came to understand things, she felt resentment and hate, and it taught her to appreciate chivalry and gentleness.”