Then her sense of justice resumed its sway.  Henry at least was not to blame—­no one was to blame but her own self.  And as she had proudly agreed with Michael that every one must come up to the scratch, she must fulfil her part.  There was no use in being dramatic and deciding upon a certain course as being a noble and disinterested one, and then in not having the pluck to carry it through.  She had prayed for guidance indeed, and no light had come, beyond the feeling that she must stick to her word.

The report of the case would be in the Scotch papers, and Michael Arranstoun being such a person of consequence it would probably be just announced in the English journals, too, and Henry would see it.  She could delay no longer; he must be told the truth in the next few days.

The sight of his kind, distinguished face shining with love had unnerved her.  She must tell him with all seeming indifference, and then close the scene as quickly as she could.

While Sabine and Moravia talked in the latter’s room, Moravia was full of discomfort and anxiety.  Her much loved friend appeared so strange.  She seemed to speak feverishly, as it were, to be trying to keep the conversation upon the lightest subjects; and when Moravia asked her how the divorce was going, she put the question aside and said that they would speak of tiresome things like that when Christmas was over!

“But,” explained the Princess, “I don’t call it at all tiresome.  It means your freedom, Sabine, and then you will be able to marry Henry.  He absolutely worships the ground you tread on, and if anything had gone wrong, I think it would have simply killed him quite.”

“Yes, I know,” returned Sabine.  “That thought is with me day and night.”

“What do you mean, darling?”

“I mean that Henry’s love frightens me, Morri.  How shall I ever be able to live up to being the ideal creature he thinks that I am?” and Sabine gave a forced laugh.

“You are not a bad sort, you know,” the Princess told her.  “A man would be very hard to please if he was not quite satisfied with you!”

Moravia’s own pain about the whole thing never clouded her sense of justice.  Henry’s love for her friend had been manifest from the very beginning, so she had never had any illusions or doubt about it; and if she had been so weak and foolish as to allow herself to fall in love with him, she must bear it and not be mean.  Sabine certainly was not to blame.

“I—­hope I shall satisfy him,” Sabine sighed; “but I do not know.  What does satisfy a man?  Tell me, Moravia—­you who understand them.”

“It depends upon the man,” and the Princess looked thoughtful.  “I know now that if I had been clever I could have satisfied Girolamo for ages, by appearing to be always just a little out of his reach, so as to keep his hunting instinct alive.  When a man is a very strong, passionate creature like that, it is the only way—­make him scheme to get you to be lovely to him, make him wait, and never be sure if you are going to let him kiss you or no; and if you adore him really yourself, hide it, and let him feel always that he has to use his wits and all his charms to keep you.  Oh!  I could have been so happy if I had known these things in time!”