For Moravia dragged him into the conversation by saying how much she would like to meet him after all she had heard of him in Paris.

“I had a letter from him this morning,” Lord Fordyce said.  “He is shooting in Norfolk at this moment, but comes up to town on Friday night.  I will ask him to dine then, Princess, and you shall see what you think of him.  He really is a very charming fellow, for all his recklessness—­and I expect half those enchanting tales they told you of him are overdrawn.”

“Oh, I hope not!” Moravia laughed.  “Do not disillusion me!”

Next day, Henry told them that he had wired to Mr. Arranstoun, who had wired back that he was very sorry he could not dine with them on Friday and go to a play, so Lord Fordyce promised the Princess he would find another occasion to present his friend.

To him, Henry, this week in late October had been one of almost unalloyed happiness—­although he could have dispensed with the continuous parties; still, he felt the Princess had to be amused, and perhaps in a larger company he got more chance of speaking to his beloved alone.

The position of a man nearly always affects women—­and the great and unmistakable prestige, which it was plain to be seen Henry possessed, had added to his charm in both Moravia and Sabine’s eyes.  It gratified Sabine’s vanity.  She knew this, she was quite cognizant of the fact that it pleased her.  She felt glad and proud that she should occupy so exalted a place in the world’s eyes, as she would do as his wife.  Surely all the great duties and interests of that position would make life very fair.  It would be such peace and relief when the divorce proceedings would come on and be finished with—­a much less tiresome affair in Scotland, she had heard, than in an English court.

When Michael Arranstoun got Henry’s wire asking him to dine, he laughed bitterly.  There was something so cynically entertaining in the idea of the whole situation!  He was being asked out to meet the wife whom he was madly in love with, and was preparing to divorce for desertion, so that she might marry the giver of the invitation!

He was tempted to accept for a second or two, the desire to see her again was growing almost more than he could bear; but at this period he had still strength to refuse—­and then, as the days went on, it seemed that nothing gave him any pleasure, and that constantly and incessantly his thoughts turned to one subject.  If there had been no friendship or honor mixed up in the thing, nothing would have been simpler than to sit down and write to Henry telling him plainly that Sabine was his wife—­and that she must choose between them.  But then he remembered that, apart from all friendship, Sabine had already plainly expressed her choice, and that he had absolutely no right to hold her in any way since he had given her permission all those years ago to make what she chose of her life.  He had not