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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
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