sigh of fatigue, she gave up the attempt. Her brain still felt muddled
and confused from the blow she had received. Perhaps later she would be
able to think things out more clearly.

Meanwhile she lay still, her eyes resting languidly on the face that
so puzzled her. It was not precisely a handsome face, but there was a
certain rugged fineness in its lines that lifted it altogether out
of the ruck of the ordinary. It held its contradictions, too.
Notwithstanding the powerful, determined jaw, the mouth had a sensitive
upward curve at the corners which gave it an expression of singular
sweetness, and beneath the eyes were little lines which qualified their
dominating glance with a hint of whimsical humour.

The clock ticked on solemnly. Presently Mrs. Braithwaite bustled in
with the tea and withdrew again. But the man remained absorbed in his
writing, apparently oblivious of everything else.

Magda, who was rapidly recovering, eyed the teapot longingly. She was
just wondering whether she dared venture to draw his attention to its
arrival or whether he would snap her head off if she did, when he looked
up suddenly with that swift, hawk-like glance of his.

"Ready for some tea?" he queried.

She nodded.

"Yes. Am I"--sarcastically--"allowed to get up now?"

He surveyed her consideringly.

"No, I think not," he said at last. "But as the mountain can't go to
Mahomet, Mahomet shall come to the mountain."

He crossed the room and, while Magda was still wondering what he
proposed to do, he stooped and dexterously wheeled the couch with its
light burden close up to the tea-table.

"Now, I'll fix these cushions," he said. And with deft hands he
rearranged the cushions so that they should support her comfortably
while she drank her tea.

"You would make a very good nurse, I should think," commented Magda,
somewhat mollified.

"Thanks," was all he vouchsafed in answer.

He busied himself pouring out tea, then brought her cup and placed it
beside her on a quaint little table of Chinese Chippendale.

"Mrs. Braithwaite--my housekeeper--is looking after your chauffeur in
the kitchen," he observed presently. "Possibly you may be interested to
hear"--sarcastically--"that he wasn't hurt in the smash-up."

Magda felt herself flushing a little under the implied rebuke--as much
with annoyance as anything else. She knew that she was not really the
heartless type of woman he inferred her to be, to whom the fate of
her depende