ation of the enormity of all he had said seemed to come to him.
But he did not appear to be at all overwhelmed by it.

"I'm afraid I've transgressed beyond forgiveness now," he said curtly.
"But--you rather asked for it, you know, didn't you?"

"Yes," she admitted. "I think I did--ask for it." Suddenly she threw up
her head and faced him. "If--if it's any satisfaction to you to know
it, I think you've paid off at least some of your friend's score." She
looked at him with a curious, almost piteous surprise. "You--you've hurt
me!" she whispered passionately. She turned to the door. "I'll go now."

"No!" He stopped her with a hand on her arm, and she obeyed his touch
submissively. For a moment he stood looking down at her with an oddly
conflicting expression on his face. It was as though he were arguing out
some point with himself. All at once he seemed to come to a decision.

"Look, you can't go till the fog clears a bit. Suppose we call a truce?
Sit down here"--pulling forward a big easy-chair--"and for the rest of
your visit let's behave as though we didn't heartily disapprove of one
another."

Magda sank into the chair with that supple grace of limb which made it
sheer delight to watch her movements.

"I never said I disapproved of you," she remarked.

He seated himself opposite her, on the other side of the hearth, and
regarded her quizzically.

"No. But you do, all the same. Naturally, you would after my candour!
And I'd rather you did, too," he added abruptly. "But at least you've no
more devoted admirer of your art. You know, dancing appeals to me in a
way that nothing else does. My job's painting--"

"House-painting?" interpolated Magda with a smile. Her spirits were
rising a little under his new kindliness of manner.

He laughed with sudden boyishness and nodded gaily.

"Why, yes--so long as people continue to cover their wall-space with
portraits of themselves."

Magda wondered whether he was possibly a well-known painter. But he gave
her no chance to find out, for he continued speaking almost at once.

"I love my art--but a still, flat canvas, however beautifully painted,
isn't comparable with the moving, living interpretation of beauty
possible to a dancer. I remember, years ago--ten years, quite--seeing
a kiddy dancing in a wood." Magda leaned forward. "It was the
prettiest thing imaginable. She was all by herself, a little, thin,
black-and-white wisp of a thing, with a small, tense face and eye