"The child is not herself," he thought. "It is possible that this Englishman may mean a great deal to her—but he is of the gentle type, not of the sort one would believe to make strong passions—no—now if it had been the other one—the friend—that one could have seen some light through—a young man well able to fill the heart of any woman—a fine young man, a splendid young man—but yes."
Madame Imogen made no reflections, she was too delighted with their gay repast, and helped with her jolly wit to keep the ball rolling.
Henry felt slightly intoxicated with happiness—while in Michael, passions of various sorts were rising, against his will.
A devil was in Sabine—never had she been so alluring, so feminine, so completely removed from her usual grave, indifferent self.
She did not look at Michael once or vouchsafe him any conversation beyond what cordial politeness compelled. It was to Père Anselme that she almost made love, with shy sallies at Henry, and merry replies to Madame Imogen. But her whole atmosphere was radiating with provoking fascination—and as they all rose from table she took Lord Fordyce's arm.
"In England, I hear you men remain in the dining room to drink all sorts of ports—but here in my France we expect you to be sociable and come with us at once—you may smoke where you choose."
Henry could not refrain from caressing with his other hand the little cold one lying on his arm as they walked along—while he whispered with passionate devotion:
"My darling, darling girl!"
"Hush!" she answered nervously. "Your friend will hear!"
"And if he does! what matter, dearest—he knows that I love you, and that as soon as you are free you are going to be my wife."