of Friars' Holm a few hours later.

"Good-bye! . . . Ah, Magda! Come back to me!"

"I shall come back."

One more lingering kiss, and then Magda stepped into the open car.
Virginie made a rush forward before the door closed and, dropping on
to her knees on the footboard, convulsively snatched her adored young
mistress's hand between her two old worn ones and covered it with
kisses.

"Oh, mademoiselle, thy old Virginie will die without thee!" she sobbed
brokenly.

And then the car slid away and Magda's last glimpse was of the open
gates of Friars' Holm with its old-world garden, stately and formal, in
the background; and of Virginie weeping unrestrainedly, her snowy apron
flung up over her head; and of Gillian standing erect, her brown eyes
very wide and winking away the tears that welled up despite herself, and
her hand on Coppertop's small manful shoulder, gripping it hard.

As the car passed through the streets many people, recognising its
occupant, stopped and turned to follow it with their eyes. One or two
women waved their hands, and a small errand-boy--who had saved up
his pennies and squeezed into the gallery of the Imperial Theatre the
previous evening--threw up his hat and shouted "Hooray!"

Once, at a crossing, the chauffeur was compelled to pull up to allow the
traffic to pass, and a flower-girl with a big basket of early violets on
her arm, recognising the famous dancer, tossed a bunch lightly into the
car. They fell on Magda's lap. She picked them up and, brushing them
with her lips, smiled at the girl and fastened the violets against the
furs at her breast. The flower-girl treasured the smile of the great
Wielitzska in her memory for many a long day, while in the arid
months that were to follow Magda treasured the sweet fragrance of that
spontaneous gift.

Half an hour later the doors of the grey house where the Sisters
of Penitence dwelt apart from the world opened to receive Magda
Vallincourt, and closed again behind her.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE GREY VEIL

Magda felt a sudden stab of fear. The sound of the latch clicking into
its place brought home to her the irrevocability of the step she had
taken. That tall, self-locking door stood henceforth betwixt her and the
dear, familiar world she had known--the world of laughter and luxury and
success. But beyond, on the far horizon, there was Michael--her "Saint
Michel." If these months of discipline brought her nearer him, then she
would never