Here chagrin began to rise, and soon dried all her tears.

Yes! she hoped he would ask them to Arranstoun.  She would certainly go, and try to punish him as much as she could by showing her absorption in Henry, and her complete indifference to himself.  His vanity would be wounded, since he had owned to being a dog in the manger.  That would be her only revenge—­and what a paltry one!  She felt that—­and was ashamed of herself; but all human beings are paltry when their self-love is wounded and the passion of jealousy has them in its thrall, and Sabine was no better nor worse than any other woman probably.  Once more she made resolutions, firm resolutions to think no more of Michael either good or bad.  It was perfectly sickening—­the humiliation and degradation of his so frequently coming into her mind.  She pulled the despatch-box nearer to her again, and in anger and contempt took from an envelope a brown and withered spray of flowers, which had once been stephanotis, and with forceful rage flung them into the fire.

“There! that is done with—­ridiculous, hateful sentiment, go!”

And when she had shut the lid down with a snap, she rang for Simone and began to dress for dinner, an extra flush burning in her cheeks.

They crossed to England a week or so later, Lord Fordyce meeting them at Charing Cross, and going with them to the Hotel.

How dear he seemed, and how distinguished he looked!  He was as ever a soothing and uplifting influence, and before the evening was over, Sabine felt calmed and happy, and sure she had done the right thing in deciding to link her life with his.

But it was not so with Moravia.  Lord Fordyce had attracted her from the moment she had first seen him, and as things do during periods of time, unconsciously this feeling had simmered, and upon seeing him again had boiled up; and alas!  Moravia—­beautiful young widow and Princess—­found herself extremely perturbed and excited, and undoubtedly becoming deeply interested in the declared lover of her friend.  Henry for her had every charm.  He was gentle and courteous, he was witty, and calm with that well-bred consciousness which she adored in Englishmen, and which Sabine had always said irritated her so.

It was all too exasperating because, with her unerring feminine instinct, she divined that Sabine really did not love him at all.  If she had felt that she did, Moravia could have borne it better, but as it was fate was too hard, and when a week went by the Princess began actually to feel unhappy.  They were continually surrounded with friends, and at every meal had the kind of parties that once she had taken such delight in.  People were just beginning to come back to London, and they had amusing play dinners and what not, and all Henry’s family, an intelligent and aristocratic band, had showered attention upon them.  The Princess had very seldom been in London before—­and quite understood that, but for the one particular cherry being out of reach which spoilt all her joy, she could have been, to use one of Miss Van der Horn’s pet expressions, “terribly amused.”  Sabine, as the days wore on, and she was under Henry’s influence again, lost her feeling of unrest and grew happy, and heard Michael’s name without a tremor.