mother whom, by the way, he
adored. But as her engagement to Michael was now public she was anxious
to get her first meeting with the musician over. He would probably
rave a little, despairing in the picturesque and dramatic fashion
characteristic of him, and the sooner he "got it out of his system," as
Gillian had observed on one occasion, the better for everyone concerned.
So Magda braced herself for the interview, and prepared to receive a
tragical and despondent Davilof.

But she was not in the least prepared for the man as he appeared when
Virginie ushered him into the dressing-room and retired, discreetly
closing the door behind her. Magda, her hand outstretched to greet him,
paused in sheer dismay, her arm falling slowly to her side.

She had never seen so great a change in any man. His face was grey--grey
and lined like the face of a man who has had no sleep for days. His
shoulders stooped a little as though he were too weary to hold himself
upright, and there was a curiously rigid look about his features,
particularly the usually mobile mouth. The only live thing about him
seemed to be his eyes. They blazed with a burning brightness that made
her think of flame. With it all, he was as immaculately groomed, his
small golden beard as perfectly trimmed, as ever.

"Antoine!" His name faltered from Magda's lips. The man's face, its
beauty all marred by some terrible turmoil of the soul, shocked her.

He vouchsafed no greeting, but came swiftly to her side.

"Is it true?" he demanded imperiously.

She shrank back from him. There was a dynamic force about him that
startled her.

"Is what true?"

"Is it true that you're engaged to Quarrington?"

"Of course it is. It was in all the papers. Didn't you see it?"

"Yes, I saw it. I didn't believe it. I was in Poland when I heard and I
started for England at once. But I was taken ill on the journey. Since
then I've been travelling night and day." He paused, adding in a tone of
finality: "You must break it off."

"Break it off? Are you crazy, Antoine?"

"No, I'm not crazy. But you're mine. You're meant for me. And no other
man shall have you."

Magda's first impulse was to order him out of the room. But the man's
haggard face was so pitifully eloquent of the agony he had been enduring
that she had not the heart. Instead, she temporised persuasively.

"Don't talk like that, Antoine." She spoke very gently. "You don't mean
it, you know. If--if you do care for m