"Madame Imogen and Lord Fordyce will be ravenous—come, let us go quickly—I can even run!"
So they strode on together with the radiant faces of those exalted by an exciting game, on the way passing Père Anselme.
And in the cool tapestried antechamber of the salle-à-manger, they found Henry looking from the window a little wistfully, and a pang of self-reproach struck both their hearts.
CHAPTER XI
A ll through breakfast, Sabine devoted herself sedulously to Lord Fordyce—and this produced two results. It sent Henry into a seventh heaven and caused Michael to burn with jealous rage. Primitive instincts were a good deal taking possession of him—and he found it extremely difficult to keep up his rôle of disinterested friend. It must be admitted he was in really a very difficult position for any man, and it is not very easy to decide what he ought to have done short of telling Henry the truth at once—but this he found grew every moment more hard to do. It would mean that he would have to leave Héronac immediately. In any case, he must do this directly. Sabine admitted, even to him, that she was his wife. They could not together agree to leave Henry in ignorance, that would be deliberately deceiving, and would make them both feel too mean. But while nothing was even tacitly confessed, there seemed some straw for his honor to grasp; he clutched at it knowing its flimsy nature. He had given himself until the next day and now refused to look beyond that. Every moment Sabine was attracting him more deeply—and bringing certain memories more vividly before him with maddening tantalization.
But did she love Henry? Of that he could not be sure. If she did, he certainly must divorce her at once. If she did not—why was she wishing to marry him? Henry was an awfully good fellow, far better than he—but after all, she was his wife—even though he had forfeited all right to call her so, and if she did not love Henry, no friendship toward him ought to be allowed to stand in the way of their reunion. It is astonishing how civilization controls nature! If we put as much force into the controlling of our own thoughts as we put into acting up to a standard of public behavior, what wonderful creatures we should become!
Here were these two human beings—young and strong and full of passion, playing each a part with an art as great as any displayed at the Comédie Française! And all for reasons suggested by civilization!—when nature would have solved the difficulty in the twinkling of an eye!
Michael spent a breakfast hour in purgatory. It was plain to be seen that Henry expected him to show some desire to go fishing, or to want some other sport which required solitude, or only the company of Madame Imogen—and his afternoon looked as if it were not going to be a thing of joy. The result of civilization then made him say: