Then pointing to her basket: "See--I was picking flowers for my sitting-room and I did not expect you for another hour--what a silent motor you must have that its noise did not penetrate here!" Henry was so overcome with joy to see her, and that she should be so gracious and sweet--he said all sorts of nice things and walked by her side as they came down from the turret summer-house.

She looked the picture of a fresh June rose as she carried her basket full of August flowers--phloxes and penstemons and a great bunch of late sweet peas.
And Michael felt almost that he was staggering a little as he followed with Madame Imogen, the shock had been so great.
Was it really Sabine--his wife!--or could she have a double in the world.

Maddening uncertainty was his portion.

He must know, he must be certain--and if she were his wife--what then?
What did it mean?
He could not claim her--she was engaged to Henry, his friend--to whom he had given his word of honor that he would help as much as he could.

It was no wonder that he answered Madame Imogen's prattle, crisp and American and amusing though it was, quite at random--his whole attention being upon the pair in front.
Sabine also found that she was not hearing a word Henry said, but that the wildest excitement which she had ever known was coursing through her blood.