While she would not recognize him, he would not recognize her.

It was she who had set the pace and the responsibility of not informing Henry lay at her door.

It was a damnably exciting game--far beyond polo or even slaying long-haired tigers in Manchuria--and he would play it and bluff without a card in his hand.
He was not a noble hero, you see, but just a strong and passionate young man--with "it"! The day was so gorgeous--Sabine woke with some kind of joyousness.

She was only twenty-two years old and supremely healthy; and however complicated fate seemed to be, when nerves and appetite are perfect and the sun is shining, it is really impossible to feel too gloomy.
Her periwinkle cambric was a reflection of her eyes, and her brown hair seemed filled with rays of gold as she stepped across the courtyard at about ten o'clock on her way to the garden.

Her guests would sleep late--and at breakfast at twelve would be time enough to see them.
But Michael caught sight of the top of a wide straw hat, and the flutter of a bluish gown from his window, and did not hesitate for a second.
Henry, he knew, was only in his bath, while he himself was fully dressed in immaculate white flannels.
It did not take him five minutes to gain the courtyard, or to saunter over the causeway bridge, and into the garden--he had brought the English papers with him, which had been among his post.