tly respectable now. I've engaged a nice, tame
pussy-cat person to take charge of my morals and chaperon me
generally. Not--like you, Marraine--an Early Victorian autocrat with a
twentieth-century tongue."

"If you mean Mrs. Grey, she doesn't give me the least impression of
being a 'nice, tame pussy-cat,'" retorted Lady Arabella. "You'll find
that out, my dear."

Magda regarded her thoughtfully.

"Do you think so?"

"I do."

"Oh, Gillian is all right," affirmed Magda, dismissing the matter
airily. "She's a gorgeous accompanist, anyway--almost as good as Davilof
himself. Which reminds me--I must go home and rehearse my solo dance in
the _Swan-Maiden_. I told Davilof I'd be ready for him at four o'clock;
and it's half-past three now. I shall never get back to Hampstead
through this ghastly fog in half an hour." She glanced towards the
window through which was visible a discouraging fog of the "pea-soup"
variety.

Lady Arabella sniffed.

"You'd better be careful for once in your life, Magda. Davilof is in
love with you."

"Pouf! What if he is?"

Magda rose, and picking up her big black hat set it on her head at
precisely the right angle, and proceeded to spear it through with a
wonderful black-and-gold hatpin of Chinese workmanship.

Lady Arabella shot a swift glance at her.

"He's just one of a crowd?" she suggested tartly.

Magda assented indifferently.

"You're wrong--quite wrong," returned her godmother crisply. "Antoine
Davilof is not one of a crowd--never will be! He's half a Pole,
remember."

Magda smiled.

"And I'm half a Russian. It must be a case of deep calling to deep," she
suggested mockingly.

Lady Arabella's shining needles clicked as they came to an abrupt stop.

"Does that mean you're in love with him?" she asked.

Magda stared.

"Good gracious, no! I'm never in love. You know that."

"That doesn't prevent my hoping you may develop--some day--into a normal
God-fearing woman," retorted the other.

"And learn to thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love?" Magda
laughed lightly. "I shan't. At least, I hope not. Judging from my
friends and acquaintances, the condition of being in love is a most
unpleasant one--reduces a woman to a humiliating sense of her own
unworthiness and keeps her in a see-saw state of emotional uncertainty.
No, thank you! No man is worth it!"

Lady Arabella looked away. Her hard, bright old eyes held a sudden
wistfulness foreign to them.

"My dear--on