“I shall not get him to kiss me to-night, after all,” she decided to herself.  “If I did, he would probably feel annoyed to-morrow, with some ridiculous sense of a too sudden disloyalty to Sabine’s memory—­and he might be huffed with himself, too, thinking he had given way; it might wound his vanity.  I shall just draw him right out and make him want to kiss me, but not consciously—­and then it will be safe when he is at that pitch to let him go off to bed.”

This plan she proceeded to put into practice.  She exploited the subject they had been talking of to its length, and aroused a sharp discussion and argument—­while she took care to place herself in the most alluring attitudes as close to Henry as she possibly could be, while maintaining a basis of frank friendship, and then she changed the current by getting him to explain to her exactly what he had done about Michael, and how they should arrange the meeting between the two, putting into her eagerness all the sparkle that she would have used in collaborating with him over the placing of the presents upon a Christmas tree—­until, at last, Henry began to take some sort of pride in the thing itself.

“I want you to let Sabine think you are just going to forgive her for her deception, but intend her to keep her word to you; and then you can take Mr. Arranstoun up to her sitting-room when you have brought him from the Pere Anselme’s—­and just push him in and let them explain matters themselves.  Won’t it be a moment for them both!”

Henry writhed.

“Yes,” he gasped, “a great moment.”

“And you are not going to care one bit, Henry,” Moravia went on, with authority.  “I tell you, you are not.”

Then, having made all clear as to their joint action upon the morrow, she spent the last half hour before they parted in instilling into his spirit every sort of comfort and subtle flattery until, when the clock struck eleven, Henry felt a sense of regret that he must say good-night.

By this time, her head was within a few inches of his shoulder, and her pretty eyes were gazing into his with the adoring affection of a child.

“You are an absolute darling, Moravia,” he murmured, with some emotion, “the kindest woman in this world,” and he bent and kissed her hair.

She showed no surprise—­to take the caress naturally would, she felt, leave him with the pleasure of it, and arouse no disturbing analyzations in his mind as to its meaning.

“Now you have got to go right off to your little bed,” she said, in a matter of fact ‘mother’ tone, “and I should just like to come and tuck you up, and turn your light out—­but as I can’t, you’ll promise me you will do it yourself at once—­and close those eyes and go to sleep.”  Here she permitted herself softly to shut his lids with her smooth fingers.

Henry felt a delicious sense of comfort and peace creeping over him—­he knew he did not wish to leave her—­but he got up and took both her hands.