“And you go back to Brittany alone?”

“Yes——­”

“Then I shall come, too.”

“If, at the end of your cure, you have not bored me!”

By this time they had got down to the Savoy gate—­and there found Moravia and Mr. Cloudwater waiting for them on the balcony—­clamoring for lunch.

Princess Torniloni gave a swift, keen glance at the two who had entered, but she did not express the thought which came to her.

“It is rather hard that Sabine, who does not want him and is not free to have him, should have drawn him instead of me.”

That night in the restaurant there came in and joined their party one of those American men who are always to be met with in Paris or Aix or Carlsbad or Monte Carlo, at whatever in any of these places represents the Ritz Hotel, one who knew everybody and everything, a person of no particular sex, but who always would make a party go with his stories and his gaiety, and help along any hostess.  Cranley Beaton was this one’s name.  The Cloudwater party were all quite glad to welcome him and hear news of their friends.  One or two decent people had arrived that afternoon also, and Moravia felt she could be quite amused and wear her pretty clothes.  Sabine hated the avalanches of dinners and lunches and what not this would mean.  Her sense of humor was very highly developed, and she often laughed in a fond way over her friend, who was, in her search for pleasure, still as keen as she had been in convent days.

“You do remain so young, Morri!” she told her, as they linked arms going up to bed.  Their rooms were on the first floor, and they disdained the lift.  “Do you remember, you used to be the mother to all of us at St. Anne’s—­and now I am the mother of us two!”

“You are an old, wise-headed Sibyl—­that is what you are, darling!” the Princess returned.  “I wish I could ever know what has so utterly changed you from our convent days,” and she sighed impatiently.  “Then you were the merriest madcap, ready to tease any one and to have any lark, and for nearly these four years since we have been together again you have been another person—­grave and self-possessed.  What are you always thinking of, Sabine?”

They had reached their sitting-room, and Mrs. Howard went to the window and opened it wide.

“I grew up in one year, Moravia—­I grew a hundred years old, and all the studies which I indulge in at Heronac teach me that peace and poise are the things to aim at.  I cannot tell you any more.”

“I did not mean to probe into your secrets, darling,” the Princess exclaimed hastily.  “I promised you I never would when you came to me that November in Rome—­we were both miserable enough, goodness knows!  We made the bargain that there should be no retrospects.  And your angelic goodness to me all that time when my little Girolamo was born, have made me your eternal debtor.  Why, but for you, darling, he might have been snatched from me by the hateful Torniloni family!”