"She is the sweetest little darling in all the world.

You would have loved her soft brown hair and her round dimpled cheek.

And she loves your master, Binko, just as he loves her; she has forgiven him for everything of long ago--and if she could, she would come back here, and live with us and make us divinely happy--as we believed she was going to do once when we were young." And then he thought suddenly of Henry's home--the stately Elizabethan house amidst luxuriant, peaceful scenery--not grim and strong like Arranstoun--though she preferred gaunt castles, evidently, since she had bought Heronac for her own.

But the thought of Henry's home and her adorning it brought too intimate pictures to his imagination; they galled him so that at last he could not bear it and started to his feet.
It was possible to part from her and go away, but it was not possible to contemplate calmly the fact of her being the wife of another man.
Material things came always more vividly to Michael than spiritual ones, and the vision he had conjured up was one of Sabine encircled by Henry's arms.

This was unbearable--and before he was aware of it he found he was clenching his fists in rage, and that Binko was sitting on his haunches, blinking at him, with his head on one side in his endeavors to understand.
Michael pulled himself together and laughed bitterly aloud.
"I must just never think of it, old man," he told the dog, "or I shall go mad." Then he sat down again.