Michael had hardly hoped to have this chance and meant to make the most of it. At dinner before a ball was not the place to have a serious discussion about divorce, but was for lighter and more frivolous conversation, and he felt his partner would be no unskilled adversary with the foils.
"So you have got this far north, Mrs. Howard," he began by saying, making a slight pause over the name. "I wish I could persuade you to come over the border to Arranstoun; it is only thirty-five miles from here, and really merits your attention."
"I have heard it is a most interesting place," Sabine returned, suddenly experiencing the same wild delight in the game as she had done in the garden at Héronac. "Have you ghosts there? We do not have such things in France."
"Yes, there are a number of ghosts—but the most persistent and disconcerting one is a very young girl who nightly falls through a secret door into my room."
"How romantic! What is she like?" Two violet eyes looked up at him full of that mischief which lies in the orbs of a kitten when it contemplates some fearsome crime, and has to appear especially innocent.
Michael thrilled. If she had that expression he was quite ready to follow the lead.
"She is perfectly enchanting—shall I tell you exactly what she wears—and her every feature and the color of her eyes? The wraith so materializes that I can describe it as accurately as I could describe you sitting next me."
"Please do."
"She is about five foot seven tall—I mean she has grown as tall as that—when she first appeared she could not have been taller than five foot five."
"How strange!"