"I have completely changed my opinions," Lord Fordyce announced, rather nettled. "So would any man if he knew Mrs. Howard."
"Howard?" asked Michael—"but anyone can be a Talbot or a Howard or a Cavendish out there—so she is a Mrs. Howard, is she? I wonder who the husband was—I had a rascally cousin of that name who went to Arizona—perhaps she married him."
"Her husband was an American," Henry rejoined, "and is in a madhouse or an institution for inebriates, I believe."
"Well, I wish you all joy, Henry, I do, indeed—and I promise you I will do all I can to help you through with it. I won't retaliate for your thundering niggardness five years ago, when you would not even be my best man, do you remember?"
"This is quite different, my dear boy," Lord Fordyce assured him with dignity. "You were going to do what I thought a most casual thing, just for your own ends, but I—Michael—" and his cultivated voice vibrated with feeling—"I love this woman as I never thought I should love anything on God's earth."
"Then here's to you!" said Mr. Arranstoun, and ringing the bell for the waiter, ordered a pint of champagne to drink his friend's health.
So they had started in the motor after breakfast next day and that night slept at St. Malo—getting to Héronac without adventure the following afternoon.
When no telegram was awaiting Lord Fordyce at —— where they breakfasted, he remarked to Michael:
"She does not mind your coming—or she would have wired—I wish I were as indifferent about it—Michael—" and Henry stammered a little—"you'll promise me as a friend—you will not look into her eyes with your confounded blue ones and try to cut me out."
For some reason this appeal touched something in Michael's heart, his voice was full of cordiality and his blue bold eyes swam with kindly affection as he answered: