He had been out of England, and indeed Europe, for nearly five years--having, in the summer of 1907, joined a friend to explore the innermost borders of China and Tibet, and there the passion for this kind of thing had overtaken him, and his own home knew him no more.
Now, however, he had announced that he had returned for good, and intended to spend the rest of his days at Arranstoun as a model landlord.
He started this by playing polo at Ostende, where he had run across Henry Fordyce.

They had cordially grasped each other's hands, their estrangement forgotten when face to face; and the only mention there had been of the circumstances which had caused their parting were in a few sentences.
"By Jove, Henry, it is five whole years since you thundered morals at me and shook the dust of Arranstoun from your feet!" "You did behave abominably, Michael--but I am awfully glad to see you--and the scene at Ebbsworth, when Violet Hatfield read the notice in the Scotsman of your marriage, made me feel you had been almost justified in taking any course you could to make yourself safe.

But how about your wife?
Have you ever seen her again ?" "No.

My lawyer tells me I can divorce her now for desertion.

I should have to make some pretence of asking her to return to me, he says, which of course she would refuse to do--and then both can be free, but, for my part, I am not hankering after freedom much--I do very well as I am--and I always cherish a rather tender recollection of her." [Illustration: "His solitary table was near theirs in the restaurant"] Henry laughed.
"I have often pictured that wedding," he said, "and the little bride going off with her certificate and your name all alone.