“No!” Magda faced him with a defiance
that was rather splendid. “No! You can’t
hurt me, Davilof. Only the man I love can do that.”
He flinched at the proud significance of the words—denying
him even the power to hurt her. It was almost
as though she had struck him, contemptuously disdainful
of his toy weapons—the weapons of the man
who didn’t count.
There was a long silence. At last he spoke.
“You’ll be sorry for that,” he said
in a voice of concentrated anger. “Damned
sorry. Because it isn’t true. I can
hurt you. And by God, if you won’t marry
me, I will! . . . Magda——”
With one of the swift changes so characteristic of
the man he softened suddenly into passionate supplication.
“Have a little mercy! God! If you knew
how I love you, you couldn’t turn me away.
Wait! Think again—”
“That will do.” She checked him imperiously.
“I don’t want your love. And for
the future please understand that you won’t even
be a friend. I don’t wish to see or speak
to you again!”
THE ROPES OF STEEL
Magda sat gazing idly into the fire, watching with
abstracted eyes the flames leap up and curl gleefully
round the fresh logs with which she had just fed it.
She was thinking about nothing in particular—merely
revelling in the pleasant warmth and comfort of the
room and in the prospect of a lazy evening spent at
home, since to-night she was not due to appear in
any of the ballets to be given at the Imperial Theatre.
Outside, the snow was falling steadily in feathery
flakes, hiding the grime of London beneath a garment
of shimmering white and transforming the commonplace
houses built of brick and mortar, each capped with
its ugly chimneystack, into glittering fairy palaces,
crowned with silver towers and minarets.
The bitter weather served to emphasise the easy comfort
of the room, and Magda curled up into her chair luxuriously.
She was expecting Michael to dinner at Friars’
Holm this evening. They had not seen each other
for three whole days, so that there was an added edge
to her enjoyment of the prospect. She would have
so much to tell him! About the triumphant reception
she had had the other night down at the theatre—he
had been prevented from being present—and
about the unwarrantable attitude Davilof had adopted,
which had been worrying her not a little. He would
sympathise with her over that—the effortless
sympathy of the man in possession!
Then the unwelcome thought obtruded itself that if
the snow continued falling Michael might be weather-bound
and unable to get out to Hampstead. She uncurled
herself from her chair and ran to the window.
The sky stretched sombrely away in every direction.
No sign of a break in the lowering, snow-filled clouds!
She drummed on the window with impatient fingers;
and then, drowning the little tapping noise they made,
came the sound of an opening door and Melrose’s
placid voice announcing:
