He was unconscious of the fact that he felt very much better than he had ever imagined that he could feel after such a blow.

Moravia's maneuvrings and sweet sympathy had been most effective, and Henry had fallen asleep while her spell was still upon him--and only awakened after several hours of refreshing slumber.

Then it was he decided upon the plan, which he put into execution as soon as daylight came.

Now he left the old priest at the church door and strode away along the rough coast road, battling with the wind and trying to conquer his thoughts.
He was following Moravia's advice, and replacing each one of pain as it came with one of pleasure--and the cold air exhilarated his blood.
Michael, meanwhile, in the slow, unpleasant train, was a prey to anxiety and speculation.

What had happened?
There was no clue in Henry's dry words in the telegram.