and his honesty of judgment made him
see that they were strangely suited to one another--his darling and his
friend--so strong and vital and young.

CHAPTER XVII

The ball was going splendidly and everyone seemed to be in wild form.
Sabine had danced with an excitement in her veins which she could not
control. Had there been no music or lights, she might just have felt
frightfully disturbed and unhappy, but as it was she was only conscious
of excitement. Lord Fordyce was above showing jealousy, and was content
that she seemed to be enjoying herself, and did not appear unwilling to
return to him quite frequently and walk about the room or sit down.

"You are looking so supremely bewitching, my darling," he told her. "I
feel it is selfish of me to keep you away from the gay dances, you are
so young and sweet. I want you to enjoy yourself. Have you not danced
with Michael Arranstoun yet? I saw you were getting on with him
splendidly at dinner--he used to be a great dancer before he went off to
foreign parts."

"No, I have not spoken to him even," she answered, with what
indifference she could.

"What was he saying just before you left the dining-room which made you
look so haughty, dearest? He was not impertinent to you, I hope," and
Henry frowned a little at the thought.

Sabine played with her fan--she was feeling inexpressibly mean.

"No--not in the least--we were discussing someone we had both
known--long ago--she is dead now. I may have been a little annoyed at
what he said. Oh! is that a Scotch reel they are going to begin?"

How glad she was of this diversion! She knew she had been capricious
with Lord Fordyce once or twice during the evening. She was greatly
perturbed. Oh! Why had she not had the courage to be her usual, honest
self, and have told him immediately at Heronac who her husband really
was. She was in a false position, ashamed of her deceit and surrounded
by a net-work of acted lies; and all through everything there was a
passionate longing to speak to Michael again, and to be near him once
more as at dinner. She had been conscious of everything that he did--of
whom he had danced with--Moravia for several times--and now she knew
that he was not in the ball-room.

Nothing could exceed Henry's gentleness and goodness to her. He watched
her moods and put up with her caprices; that something unusual had
disturbed her he felt, but what it could be he was unable to guess.

Sabine was aware