Sabine had not wired.  She felt a certain sense of relief.  It would make someone to talk to Madame Imogen and the Cure—­and cause there to be no gene.

Then her thoughts turned to Henry himself with tender friendship.  So dear a companion, and how glad she would be to see him again.  The ten days since they had parted at Carlsbad seemed actually long!  Surely it was a wise thing to do to start her real life with one whom she could so truly respect; there could be no pitfalls and disappointments!  And his great position in England would give scope for her ambition, which never could be satisfied like Moravia’s with just social things.  She would begin to study English politics and the other great matters which Henry was interested in.  He would find that what she had told him at Carlsbad was true, and that, although he was naturally prejudiced against Americans, he would have to admit that she, as his wife, played the part as well, if not better, than one of his own countrywomen could have done.  She thrilled a little as the picture came up before her of the large outlook she would have to survey, and the great situation she would have to adorn, but sure of Henry’s devoted kindness and gentleness all the time.

Yes—­she would certainly marry him, perhaps by next year.  Mr. Parsons had written only yesterday, saying he had begun to take steps, as her freedom must come from the side of her husband—­who could divorce her for desertion.  She could not urge this plea against him, since she had left him of her own free will.

“He will jump at the chance, naturally,” she said to herself—­“and then, perhaps, he will marry Daisy Van der Horn!”

She was still a very young woman, you see, for all her four years of deep education in the world of books!

She put the letter back in her basket below the flowers she had picked, and prepared to return to the chateau.  To arrange various combinations of color in vases was her peculiar joy—­and her flower decorations were her special care.  She was just entering the great towered gate of Heronac where resided the concierge, when she heard the whir of a motor approaching in the distance, and she hurriedly slipped inside old Berthe’s parlor.  She disliked dust and strangers, who, fortunately, very seldom came upon this unbeaten track.

She was watching from the window until they should have passed—­it could not be her guests, it was quite an hour too soon, when the motor whizzed round the bend and stopped short at the gate!  It was a big open one, and the occupants wore goggles over their eyes; but she recognized Lord Fordyce’s figure, as he got out followed by a very tall young man, who called out cheerily: 

“Yes—­this must be the brigand’s stronghold, Henry; let’s thunder at the bell.”

Then for a moment her knees gave way beneath her, and she sank into Berthe’s carved oaken chair.  For the voice was the voice of Michael Arranstoun—­and when he pulled the goggles off, she could see, as she peered through the window, his sunburnt face and bold blue eyes.