Her firm will forced her to pull herself together and decide what to do when they should come face to face.  To be totally unconcerned was the best thing—­to look and act as though Michael Arranstoun were indeed a perfect stranger introduced to her for the first time in her life.  It would take him some moments to be certain that she was Sabine—­his wife—­and he would then not be likely to make a scene before Henry—­and when the moment for plain speaking came, she would sternly demand to be set free.  She had kept silence to Henry as to who her husband really was—­for no reason except that the whole subject disturbed her greatly—­the very mention of Michael’s name or the thought of him always filling her with wild and mixed emotions.  She had schooled herself in the years that had gone by since their parting, into absolutely banishing his memory every time it recurred.  She had a vague feeling that she must be free of him, and safe before she could even pronounce his name to Lord Fordyce, who naturally must know eventually.  There was an unaccountable and not understood fear in her—­fear that in the discussion which must arise if she spoke of who her husband was to Henry, that something might transpire, or that she might hear something which would reawaken certain emotions, and weaken her determination to break the even empty bond with Michael.  And now she had seen him again with her mortal eyes, and she knew that she was trembling and tingling with a mad sensation of she knew not what—­hatred and revulsion she hoped! but was only sure of one aspect of it—­that of wild excitement.

No one—­not a single soul—­neither Simone—­Madame Imogen—­nor Pere Anselme himself must be allowed to see that she recognized Michael—­her belief that her countrywomen were fine actresses should stand her in good stead, and enable her to play this part of unconsciousness to perfection. She would conquer herself—­and she stamped her little foot there in the high turret bower in the garden where she had retired.  Its windows opened straight out to the sea and she often had tea there.  There would be no use in all her prayers for calm and poise if they should desert her now in this great crisis of her life.  She was bound to Henry by her promised word, given of her own free will—­and she meant to keep it, and do everything in her power to make herself free.  She was an extremely honest person, honest even with herself, and she realized that either her own weakness or indecision, or some other motive had forced her to give a definite answer to Lord Fordyce—­and that he was too fine a character to be played with and tossed about because of her moods.  She had mastered every sign of emotion by the time Madame Imogen’s comfortable figure, accompanied by the two men, could be seen advancing in the distance.  She rose with the gracious smile of a hostess and held out her hand—­pleased surprise upon her face.

“So you have come! but earlier than I thought,” and she shook hands with Henry, and then turned to his friend without the slightest embarrassment, as Lord Fordyce spoke his name.