deliberately spoke of Sabine, wondering if she would be awfully surprised to see Michael, and if he would take her back with him to Arranstoun.  Henry winced at every word, but he had to answer, and presently he found he did not feel so sad.  Then, with dexterity, she turned the conversation to English politics and got him to explain points to her, and at every moment she poured in insidious flattery and frank, kind affection, so that by the time the ice had come, Henry had begun to feel unaccountably soothed.  She was really a beautiful woman and arranged with a wonderful chic, and he realized that she had never looked more charming or been so sweet.  She had all the sense of power being on her side, now that she had a free hand, unhampered by honor to her friend, and when the dessert and the cigarettes had come, she felt that she might indulge in a little sentiment.

She remembered that he only smoked cigars, and got up and helped him to light one of his own; and when she was quite close to him, she put her hand out and stroked his hair.

“Even if he does not like it at first,” she told herself, “he is too polite to say so, and presently, just because he is a man, it will give him a thrill.”

“I do love your light hair, Henry,” she said aloud, “and it is so well brushed.  You Englishmen are certainly soigne creatures, and I like your lazy, easy grace—­as though you would never put yourself out for any one.  I can’t bear a fuss.”  She puffed her cigarette and did not wait for him to answer her, but prattled on perfectly at ease.  Even his courtesy would not have prevented him from snubbing her, if she had been the least tentative in her caressings, or the least diffident.  But she just took it as a matter of course that she could stroke his hair if she wanted to, and presently it began to give him a sensation of pleasure and rest.  If she had, by word or look, suggested that she expected some return, Henry would have frozen at once—­but all she did was apparently only to please herself, and so he had no defense to make.  Still in the character of domestic tyrant, she presently led him to the comfortable armchair, and once more seated herself upon the stool close to the fire by his side.  Here she was silent for a few moments, letting the comfort of the whole scene sink in to his brain—­and then, when the maid came in to clear away the dinner-table, she got up and went to the piano, where she played some soft, but not sentimental tunes.  Music of a certain sort would be the worst thing for him, but a light air while Marie was in the room could do no harm.  Though, when she went over close to him again, she saw that even this pause had allowed him time to think, and that his face was once more overcome by melancholy, although he greeted her with a smile.

Something further must be done.