own her glass of champagne; she thought she could no
longer support the situation. She almost felt she hated Henry and his
devotion,--it was paralyzing her, suffocating her--crushing her life.
Michael never spoke to her--beyond a casual word--and at length they all
went back to the ball-room, where an extra was being played--Michael,
for a moment, standing by her side. Then a sudden madness came to them
as their eyes met, and he held out his arm.

"This is my dance, I think, Mrs. Howard," he said with careless
sangfroid, and he whirled her away into the middle of the room. They
both were perfect dancers and never stopped in their wild career until
the music ended. It was a two-step, and all the young people clapped
for the band to go on. So once more they started with the throng. They
had not spoken a single word; it was a strange comfort to them just to
be together--half anguish, half bliss--but as the last bars died away,
Michael whispered in her ear:

"I am going to say good-night to Rose. She is accustomed to my ways. I
have ordered my motor, and I am going home to-night--I cannot bear it
another single minute. If I stayed until to-morrow I should break my
word. I love you to absolute distraction--Good-bye," and without waiting
for her to answer he left her close to Henry and turning was lost in the
crowd.

Suddenly the whole room reeled to Sabine, the lights danced in her eyes,
and a rushing sound came in her ears. She would have fallen forward only
Lord Fordyce caught her arm, while he cried, in solicitous
consternation:

"My dearest, you have danced too much. You feel faint--let me take you
out of all this into the cool."

But Sabine pulled herself together and assured him she was all
right--she had been giddy for a moment--he need not distress himself;
and as they walked into the conservatory she protested vehemently that
she had never been at so delightful a ball.

CHAPTER XVIII

A sobbing wind and a weeping rain beat round the walls of Arranstoun,
and the great gray turrets and towers made a grim picture against the
November sky, darkening toward late afternoon, as its master came
through the postern gate and across the lawn to his private rooms. He
had been tramping the moorland beyond the park without Binko or a gun,
his thoughts too tempestuous to bear with even them. For the letter to
Messrs. McDonald and Malden had gone, and the first act of the tragedy
of his freedom had been begun.

I