was just the dear, splendid thing you would do,
Henry," Moravia cried, getting up from her knees. "But we won't tell
Sabine; we will just let her mope there up in her room, feeling as
miserable as she deserves to be for not knowing her own mind. We will
all have a nice dinner--no, that won't be it--you and I will dine alone
here, up in this room, and Papa can talk to Madame Imogen. In this
house, thank goodness, we can all do what we like, and I am not going to
leave you, Henry, until we have got to say good-night. I don't care
whether you want me or not--I have just taken charge of you, and I mean
you to do what I wish--there!"

And she crept closer to him again and laid her face upon his breast, so
that his cheek was resting upon her soft dark hair. Great waves of
comfort flowed to Henry. This sweet woman loved him, at all events. So
he put his arm round her again, while he assured her he did want her,
and that she was an angel, and other such terms. And by the time she
allowed him to go to his room to dress for dinner, a great measure of
his usual nerve and balance was restored. She had not given him a moment
to think, even shaking her finger at him and saying that if he was more
than twenty minutes dressing, she would herself come and fetch him and
bring him back to her room.

Then, when he had left her, this true daughter of Eve, after ordering
dinner to be served to them, proceeded to make herself as beautiful as
possible for the next scene. She felt radiant. It was enormous what she
had done.

"Why, he was on the verge of suicide!" she said to herself, "and now he
is almost ready to smile. Before the evening is over I shall have made
him kiss me--and before a month is past we shall be engaged. What
perfect nonsense to have silly mawkish sentiment over anything! The
thing to do is to win one's game."

CHAPTER XXII

Lord Fordyce found himself dressing in the usual way and with the usual
care, such creatures of habit are we--and yet, two hours earlier, he had
felt that life was over for him. Although he did not know it, Moravia
had been like a strong restorative applied at the right moment, and the
crisis of his agony had gone by. It was not that he was not still
overcome by sorrow, or that moments of complete anguish would not recur,
but the current had been diverted from taking a fatal turn, and
gradually things would mend. The perfect, practical common sense of
Moravia was so good for him. She was