“How do you do,” she said politely.  “You are both very welcome to Heronac.”

Michael had merely seen a pretty outline of a young woman until they had got quite close and she had raised her head and lifted the shadow of her big garden sun-bonnet—­and then he stiffened suddenly and grew very pale.  He was a little behind the other two, and they observed nothing, but Sabine saw the change of color in his healthy handsome face, and the look of surprise and incredulity and puzzle which grew in his blue eyes.

“How do you do?” he murmured, and then pulled himself together and looked at her hard.

But she stood his scrutiny with perfect unconcern—­even meeting his eye with a blank, agreeable want of recognition; while she made some ordinary remark about their journey.  Then pointing to her basket: 

“See—­I was picking flowers for my sitting-room and I did not expect you for another hour—­what a silent motor you must have that its noise did not penetrate here!”

Henry was so overcome with joy to see her, and that she should be so gracious and sweet—­he said all sorts of nice things and walked by her side as they came down from the turret summer-house.  She looked the picture of a fresh June rose as she carried her basket full of August flowers—­phloxes and penstemons and a great bunch of late sweet peas.  And Michael felt almost that he was staggering a little as he followed with Madame Imogen, the shock had been so great.

Was it really Sabine—­his wife!—­or could she have a double in the world.  Maddening uncertainty was his portion.  He must know, he must be certain—­and if she were his wife—­what then?  What did it mean?  He could not claim her—­she was engaged to Henry, his friend—­to whom he had given his word of honor that he would help as much as he could.  It was no wonder that he answered Madame Imogen’s prattle, crisp and American and amusing though it was, quite at random—­his whole attention being upon the pair in front.

Sabine also found that she was not hearing a word Henry said, but that the wildest excitement which she had ever known was coursing through her blood.  At last she did catch that he was telling her that never had she been more beautiful or had brighter eyes.

“This place must suit you even better than Carlsbad,” he said.

She answered laughingly and led the way toward the gate and so across the causeway and on into her own sitting-room where they would find tea.  She supposed afterwards that she had talked sensibly, but never had any recollection of what she had said.

The room was looking singularly beautiful with the wonderful coloring of the splendid curtains, and the tapestry and dark wood.  And it was a homely place, too, with quantities of book-cases and comfortable chairs for all its vast size.  Michael thought there was a faint look of his own room at Arranstoun—­and he joined the two who had advanced to one of the huge embrasures of the windows where the tea table was laid—­here there were velvet-covered window seats where one could lounge and gaze out at the sea.