"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"]
"I have often pictured that wedding," he said, "and the little bride going off with her certificate and your name all alone. No family turned up awkwardly at the last moment to mar things; she left safely after the ceremony, eh?"
Michael looked away suddenly, and then answered with overdone unconcern:
"I do wonder you had no curiosity to investigate her character further!"
"I had--but she did not appreciate my interest--and--after she had gone--I was rather in a bad temper, and I reasoned myself into believing she was probably right--also just then I wanted to join Latimer Berkeley's expedition to China. I remember, his letter about it came by the next morning's post--so I went--but do you know, Henry, I believe that little girl made some lasting impression upon me. I believe, if she had stayed, I should have been frantically in love with her--but she went, so there it is!"
"Why don't you try to find her?" Henry asked.
"Perhaps I mean to some day. I have thought of doing so often, but first China, and then one thing and another have stopped me--besides, she may have fancied some other fellow by this time--the whole thing was one of those colossal mistakes. If we could only have met ordinarily--and not married in a hurry and then parted--like that."
"Has it never struck you she was rather young to be left to drift by herself?"
"Yes, often--" Then Michael grew a little constrained. "I believe I behaved like the most impossible brute, Henry--in marrying her at all as you said--but I would like to make it up to her some day--and I suppose if, by chance, she has taken a fancy to someone else by this time and wants to be free of me, I ought to divorce her--but, by Heaven, I believe I should hate that!"