The homage that had leaped into his eyes the first
moment they had rested on her, and which had slowly
deepened as the days slipped by, had somehow soothed
her, restoring her feminine poise which Michael’s
sudden defection had shaken.
She knew—as every woman always does know
when a man is attracted by her—that she
had the power to stir this big, primitive countryman,
whose way of life had never before brought him into
contact with her type of woman, just as she had stirred
other men. And she carelessly accepted the fact,
without a thought that in playing with Dan Storran’s
emotions she was dealing with a man who knew none of
the moves of the game, to whom the art of love-making
as a pastime was an unknown quantity, and whose fierce,
elemental passions, once aroused, might prove difficult
to curb. He amused her and kept her thoughts off
recent happenings, and for the moment that was all
that mattered.
STORRAN OF STOCKLEIGH
It was a glorious morning. The sun blazed like
a great golden shield out of a cloudless sky, and
hardly a breath of air stirred the foliage of the
trees.
Magda, to content an insatiable Coppertop, had good-naturally
suffered herself to be dragged over the farm.
They had visited the pigs—a new and numerous
litter of fascinating black ones having recently made
their debut into this world of sin—and
had watched the cows being milked, and been chased
by the irascible gander, and finally, laughing and
breathless, they had made good their escape into the
garden where Gillian sat sewing, and had flung themselves
down exhaustedly on the grass at her feet.
“I’m in a state of mental and moral collapse,
Gilly,” declared Magda, fanning herself vigorously
with a cabbage leaf. “Whew! It is hot!
As soon as I can generate enough energy, I propose
to bathe. Will you come?”
Gillian shook her head lazily.
“I think not to-day. I want to finish this
overall for Coppertop. And it’s such a
long trudge from here down to the river.”
“Yes, I know.” Magda nodded.
“It’s three interminable fields away—and
the thistles and things prick one’s ankles abominably.
Still, it’s lovely when you do get there!
I think I’ll go now”—springing
up from the velvet turf—“before I
get too lazy to move.”
Gillian’s eyes followed her thoughtfully as
she made her way into the house. She had never
seen Magda so restless—she seemed unable
to keep still a moment.
Half an hour later Magda emerged from the house wrapped
in a cloak, a little scarlet bathing-cap turbanning
her dark hair, and a pair of sandals on the slim supple
feet that had danced their way into the hearts of
half of Europe.
“Good-bye!” she called gaily, waving her
hand. And went out by the wicket gate leading
into the fields.
There was not a soul in sight. Only the cows,
their red, burnished coats gleaming like the skin
of a horse-chestnut in the hot sun, cast ruminative
glances at her white-cloaked figure as it passed, and
occasionally a peacefully grazing sheep emitted an
astonished bleat at the unusual vision and skedaddled
away in a hurry.
