Ostende had begun to bore Michael Arranstoun intolerably--he had lamed his best pony and Miss Daisy Van der Horn was getting on his nerves.

At Ostende she, to use one of her own expressions, "was not the only pebble on the beach." His nerves had had a good deal of exercise among that exceedingly pleasure-loving, frolicsome crew.
Five years in the wilds had not changed him much, except to add to his annoying charm.

He was more absolutely dare-devil and sure of himself and careless of all else than ever.

Miss Daisy Van der Horn--and a number of Clarices and Germaines and Lolos--were "just crazy" about him.
And they mattered to him not a single straw.

He laughed--and kissed them when he felt inclined, and then when all had begun to weary him he rode away--or rather sent his polo ponies back to England and got into the express for Paris, expecting there to find Henry Fordyce returned from Carlsbad--only to hear that he had just started in his motor for Brittany, and by that evening would have arrived at Havre.
Michael had nothing special to do and so followed him there at once by train, coming upon him just as he was closing his letter to Mrs.Howard.
Then in his usual whirlwind way, which must be obeyed--he had persuaded Henry to take him on with him, inwardly against that astute politician's, but diffident lover's will.
"Look here, Michael," he had said, "I am going to see the lady of my heart--you know, and you will probably be in the way!" "Not a bit, old boy--I'll play the helpful friend and spin things along.
What's she like ?" Here Lord Fordyce gave a guarded description--but with the enthusiasm of a man who is no longer quite young but madly in love.
"Good Lord!" whistled Michael.