“I would rather see it for the first time, Henry, when I am engaged to you.  Now I should be an ordinary visitor—­can’t you understand?”

And he had said that he could.  It always thrilled him when she appeared to take an interest in his home.

They talked now about it—­and how he would so love her to choose her own rooms and have them arranged as she liked.  Then he made pictures of their life together there, and as he spoke her heart seemed to sink and become heavier every moment, until at last she could bear no more.

It was about two dances before supper, into which she had promised to go with him.  She would get away to her room now and be alone until then.  She must pull herself together and act with common sense.

She told him that she had to settle her hair, which had become disarranged, and saying he would wait for her he left her at the foot of the smaller staircase, which led in a roundabout way to her and Moravia’s rooms.  She had not wanted to pass through the great hall where quantities of people were sitting out.  She was just crossing the corridor where the bachelors were lodged, when she almost ran into the arms of Michael Arranstoun.

He stopped short and apologized—­and then he said: 

“I was coming to find you—­there is something I must say to you.  Mrs. Forster’s sitting-room is close here—­will you come with me in there for a moment; we can be alone.”

Sabine hesitated.  She looked up at him, so tall and masterful and astonishingly handsome—­and then she obeyed him meekly, and he led the way into a cosy little room unlit except for a glowing mass of coals.

Michael turned on one electric lamp, and they both went over to the chimney piece.

Intense excitement and emotion filled them, but while he tried to search her face with his passionate eyes, she looked into the fire with lowered head.

Then he spoke almost fiercely: 

“I cannot try to guess what caused you to pretend you did not recognize me when we met at Heronac.  That first false step has created all this hopeless tangle.  I will not judge you, but only blame my own weakness in falling in with your plan.”  He clasped his hands together rather wildly.  “I was so stunned with surprise to see you, and overcome with the knowledge that I had just given Henry my word of honor that I would not interfere with him, or make love to the lady we were going to see—­a Mrs. Howard, who was married to a ruffian of an American husband shut up in a madhouse or home for inebriates!  My God!  Lies from the very beginning,” and he gave a little laugh.  “I had forgotten for the moment that you had said you would call yourself by that name, but I remembered it afterwards.  You had not decided if you would be a widow—­do you recollect?—­and you wanted a coronet for your handkerchiefs and note-paper!”

Sabine quivered under the lash of his scorn.

“You maddened me that afternoon and at dinner, too,” he went on, “and I made resolutions and then broke them.  But each time I did, I was filled with remorse and contrition about Henry—­and I am ashamed to confess it, I was madly jealous, too.  At last, I saw you in the garden together and knew I ought to go at once.”