Sabine—overcome by Lord Fordyce's goodness, had let him hold her arm while her head was perilously near to his shoulder. It all looked very intimate and lover-like when seen from afar. The greatest pain Michael Arranstoun had ever experienced came into his heart, and without waiting a second he turned on his heel and went back to the house. Here he had a bath and changed his clothes, while his servant packed, and then, with the help of Madame Imogen, he looked up a train. Yes, there was a fast one which went to Paris from their nearest little town—he could just catch it by ordering Henry's motor—this he promptly did—and leaving the best excuses he could invent with Madame Imogen, he got in and departed a few minutes before his hostess and Lord Fordyce came back to tea at five.
He had written a short note to Sabine—which Nicholas handed to her.
She opened it with trembling fingers; this was all it was:
I understand—and I will get the divorce as soon as the law will allow, and I will try to arrange that Henry need never know. I would like you just to have come to Arranstoun once more—perhaps I can persuade Henry to bring you there in the autumn.
Michael Arranstoun.
It was as well that Lord Fordyce had gone up to his room—for the lady of Héronac grew white as death for a moment, and then crumpling the note in her hand she staggered up the old stone stairs to her great sitting-room.
So he had gone then—and they could have no explanation. But he had come out of the manger—and was going to let the other animal eat the hay.
This, however, was very poor comfort and brought no consolation on its wings. Civilization again won the game.
For she had to listen unconcernedly to Madame Imogen's voluble description of Michael's leaving—pressing business which he had mistaken the date about—finally she had to pour out tea and smile happily at Henry and Père Anselme.
But when she was at last alone, she flung herself down by the window seat and shook all over with sobs.