become commonplace. But now the new ring of determination,
of something unexpectedly dogged in his voice, poignantly recalled the
warning uttered by Lady Arabella earlier in the day.

Magda's nerve wavered. A momentary panic assailed her. Then she
intuitively struck the right note.

"Ah, Davilof, don't worry me now--not to-night!" she said appealingly.
"I'm tired. It's been a bit of a strain--the accident and--and----"

"Forgive me!" In a moment he was all penitence--overwhelmed with
compunction. "Forget it! I've behaved like a brute. I ought to have seen
that you were worn out."

He was beside himself with remorse.

"It's all right, Antoine." She smiled forgiveness at him. "Only I
felt--I felt I couldn't stand any more to-night. I suppose it's taken it
out of me more than I knew--the shock, and fainting like that."

"Of course it has. You ought to rest. I wish Mrs. Grey were in."

"Is she not?"

"No. The maid told me she was out when I came, and she hasn't returned
yet."

"She's been held up by the fog, I expect," answered Magda. "Never mind.
I'll sit here--in this big chair--and you shall switch off these glaring
lights and play to me, Antoine. That will rest me better than anything."

She was a little sorry for the man--trying to make up to him for
the pain she knew she had inflicted a moment before, and there was a
dangerous sweetness in her voice.

Davilof's eyes kindled. He stooped swiftly and kissed her hand.

"You are too good to me!" he said huskily.

Then, while she lay back restfully in a chair which he heaped with
cushions for her, he played to her, improvising as he played--slow,
dreaming melodies that soothed and lulled but held always an undertone
of passionate appeal. The man himself spoke in his music; his love
pleaded with her in its soft, beseeching cadences.

But Magda failed to hear it. Her thoughts were elsewhere--back with the
man who, that afternoon, had first rescued her and afterwards treated
her with blunt candour that had been little less than brutal. She felt
sore and resentful--smarting under the same dismayed sense of surprise
and injustice as a child may feel who receives a blow instead of an
anticipated caress.

Indulged and flattered by everyone with whom she came in contact, it had
been like a slap in the face to find someone--more particularly someone
of the masculine persuasion--who, far from bestowing the admiration and
homage she had learned to look for as a righ