Michael’s eyes blazed—­she was a truly bewitching morsel in her fresh white frock with its bunch of crimson sweet peas stuck in the belt.

“Your flowers should be stephanotis,” he said, and that was all, as he followed her down the stairs.

“I cannot bear them,” she retorted and shuddered a little.  “I only care for out-door, simple things like my sweet peas.”

He did not speak as they went along the gallery—­this disconcerted her—­what did it mean?  She had been prepared to fence with him, and keep him in his place, she was ready to defend herself on all sides—­and no defence seemed necessary!  A sudden cold feeling came over her as though excitement had died down and she opened the salon door quickly and advanced into the room.

Michael had come to a determination while dressing—­Henry had walked in and smoked a cigarette with him before he began, and had then showed plainly his joy and satisfaction.  She—­his worshiped lady—­had never before been so tender and gracious, and he was awfully happy because things were going well.  And what did his friend Michael think of his choice?  Was she not the sweetest woman in the world?

Michael said he had seen better-looking ones, but admitted she had charm.  He was really suffering, the situation was so impossible and he had not yet made up his mind what he ought to do—­tell Henry straight out that Sabine was his wife or what?  If he did that he might be going contrary to some plan of hers—­for she evidently had no intention yet of informing Lord Fordyce, or of giving the least indication that she recognized him—­Michael.  It was the most grotesque puzzle and contained an element of the tragic, too—­for one of them.

Henry’s happiness and contentment touched him—­his dear old friend!—­he felt extraordinarily upset.  But when Lord Fordyce had gone he rapidly reviewed matters and made up his mind.  At all events, for the present, he would be guided by what Sabine’s attitude should be herself.  He would certainly see her alone on the following day and then she would most likely broach the subject and they could agree what to do—­for that Henry must know some day was an incontestable fact.  He, Michael, would make some excuse and leave Heronac by the next evening, it was impossible to go on playing such a part, and not fair to any one, least of all to his friend.

“I will give her to-night to declare her hand,” he thought, as his valet, no longer the dignified Johnson, handed him his coat, “and then if she will not put the cards down—­I must.”

But when he opened his door and saw her exquisite slender figure tripping forward from the dark passage, a fierce pain gripped his heart, and he said between his teeth: 

“My God! if it had not been too late!”

The Dame d’Heronac was in wild spirits at dinner—­and her cheeks burned like glowing roses.  Monsieur le Cure watched her with his wise, black eye.