it.

"That woman was a twentieth-century Circe." He paused, then added with
grim conviction: "There's no forgiveness for a woman like that."

"Ah! Don't say that!"

The words broke impulsively from Magda's lips. The recollection of the
summer she had spent at Stockleigh rushed over her accusingly--and she
realised that actually she had come between Dan Storran and his wife
very much as the Circe woman of Michael's story had come between some
other husband and wife.

A deep compassion for that unknown woman surged up within her. Surely
her burden of remorse must be almost more than she could endure! And
Magda--to whom penalties and consequences had hitherto been but very
unimportant factors with which she concerned herself as little as
possible--was all at once conscious of an intense thankfulness that
she had not been thus punished, that she had quitted Stockleigh leaving
husband and wife still together. Together, they would find the way back
into each other's hearts!

"Don't say that!" she repeated imploringly. "It sounds so hard--so
relentless!"

"I don't think that it is a case for relenting. But I oughtn't to have
told you about it. After all, neither the husband nor wife were friends
of yours. And you're looking quite upset over it. I didn't imagine that
you were so easily moved to sympathy."

She looked away. Of late she had been puzzled herself at the new and
unwonted emotions which stirred her.

"I don't think--I used to be," she said at last, uncertainly.

"Well, please don't take the matter too much to heart or you won't be
able to assume the personality of Circe again when you've rested. I
don't want to paint the picture of a model of propriety!"

It seemed as though he were anxious to restore the conversation to a
lighter vein, and Magda responded gladly.

"I'm quite rested now. Shall I pose again?" she suggested a few minutes
later.

Michael assented and, picking up his palette, began squeezing out fresh
shining little worms of paint on to it while Magda reassumed her pose.
For a while he chatted intermittently, but presently he fell silent,
becoming more and more deeply absorbed in his work. Finally, when some
remark of hers repeated a second time still remained unanswered, she
realised that he had completely forgotten her existence. As far as he
was concerned she was no longer Magda Wielitzska, posing for him, but
Circe, the enchantress, whose amazing beauty he was transferring to
his can