Michael was in no gentle temper, and Henry was the last person he wished to talk to.

He knew he ought not to have come, he knew that he ought to tell Henry straight out and then go off before the ball.

He felt he was behaving like the most despicable coward; and yet, if it were possible for Henry never to know that he, Michael, was Sabine's husband, it would save his friend much pain.

He was smarting under Sabine's insolent dismissal of him, and burning with jealousy over that witnessed caress, the violent passions of his race were surging up and causing a devil of recklessness to show in his very handsome face.
Lord Fordyce saw that something had disturbed him.
"What's up, Michael, old boy ?" he asked.

"I haven't seen you look so like Black James since you got Violet Hatfield's letter and did not see how you could get out of marrying her." Black James was a famous Arranstoun of the Court of James IV of Scotland, whose exploits had been the terror and admiration of the whole country, and who was even yet a byword for recklessness and savagery.
Michael laughed.
"Poor old Violet!" he said.