“Nonsense! If he didn’t know you,
why should he suppose himself competent to form any
opinion about you at all—good, bad, or
indifferent?”
“I don’t know,” replied Magda slowly.
Then, speaking with sudden defiance: “Yes,
I do know! A pal of his had—had cared
about me some time or other, and I’d turned
him down. That’s why.”
“Oh, Magda!” There was both reproach and
understanding in Gillian’s voice.
Magda shrugged her shoulders.
“Well, if he wanted to pay off old scores on
his pal’s behalf, he succeeded,” she said
mirthlessly.
Gillian looked at her in surprise. She had never
seen Magda quite like this before; her sombre eyes
held a curious strained look like those of some wild
thing of the forest caught in a trap and in pain.
“And you don’t know who he was—I
mean the man who came to your help and then lectured
you?”
“Yes, I do. It was Michael Quarrington,
the artist.”
“Michael Quarrington? Why, he has the reputation
of being a most charming man!”
Magda stared into the fire.
“I dare say he might have a great deal of charm
if he cared to exert it. Apparently, however,
he didn’t think I was worth the effort.”
IN THE MIRROR ROOM
Shouts of mirth came jubilantly from the Mirror Room
as Davilof made his way thither one afternoon a few
days later. The shrill peal of a child’s
laughter rose gaily above the lower note of women’s
voices, and when the accompanist opened the door it
was to discover Magda completely engrossed in giving
Coppertop a first dancing lesson, while Gillian sat
stitching busily away at some small nether garments
afflicted with rents and tears in sundry places.
Every now and again she glanced up with softly amused
eyes to watch her son’s somewhat unsteady efforts
in the Terpsichorean art.
Coppertop, a slim young reed in his bright green knitted
jersey, was clinging with one hand to a wooden bar
attached to the wall which served Magda for the “bar
practice” which constitutes part of every dancer’s
daily work, while Magda, holding his other hand in
hers, essayed to instruct him in the principle of
“turning out”—that flexible
turning of the knees towards the side which gives
so much facility of movement.
“Point your toes sideways—so,”
directed Magda. “This one towards me—like
that.” She stooped and placed his foot in
position. “Now, kick out! Try to kick
me!”
Coppertop tried—and succeeded, greeting
his accomplishment with shrieks of delight.
It was just at this moment that Davilof appeared on
the scene, pausing abruptly in the doorway as he caught
sight of Magda’s laughing face bent above the
fiery red head. There was something very charming
in her expression of eager, light-hearted abandonment
to the fun of the moment.
At the sound of the opening door Coppertop wriggled
out of her grasp like an eel, twisting his lithe young
body round to see who the new arrival might be.
His face fell woefully as he caught sight of Davilof.
