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Updated: May 23, 2025
He disappeared below into the tiny, single-berthed cabin, and presently returned armed with a couple of blankets, one of which he proceeded to wrap about Magda's shoulders, tucking the other over her knees where she sat in the stern of the boat. "I don't want them both," she protested, resisting. "You take one."
She thought she understood what lay behind Magda's sudden decision to bury herself in the country. "Have you taken rooms at this farm?" she asked. "Yes, I have" shortly. Then, with one of those sudden flashes of affectionate insight which were part of her essential lovableness, she went on: "Gilly, are you sure you don't mind? I ought to have asked you first" remorsefully.
"Most of the things we really know in life are mere guesswork," replied Lady Arabella sagely. "But in this case " "Yes. In this case?" There was a long pause. Then Lady Arabella answered slowly: "In this case I'm speaking from first-hand information." Magda's slender figure tautened. She moistened her lips. "Do you mean that Mr.
Magda's faint responsive smile was touched with that bitter knowledge which is the heritage of the woman who has been much loved for her beauty. "You're a woman, Gillyflower," she said. "And Michael is not only a man but an artist. Men don't want you when the bloom has been brushed off. And you know how Michael worships beauty! He's bound to being an artist."
To contrast his wife with her was to contrast a field-flower with some rare, exotic bloom, and Gillian was conscious of a sudden rush of sympathy for June's unarmoured youth and inexperience. Magda's curiously uncertain moods of late, too, had worried her not a little.
Catherine had been quick enough to detect Magda's detestation of this particular sister and to use it as a further means of discipline. It was necessary that Magda's pride and vanity should be humbled, and Catherine saw to it that they were.
Magda's head was turned away, but the sudden scarlet flush that flew up into her face surged over even the white nape of her neck. "And he loves you," went on Lady Arabella, her voice softening incredibly. "It's only a man here or there who really loves a woman, my dear.
Magda's slight little figure sank to the ground, drooping slowly like a storm-bent snowdrop, and lay still. Lady Arabella sat up with a jerk. "Good gracious! The child's a born dancer! Lydia Tchinova must see her. She'll have to train. Poor Hugh!" She chuckled enjoyably. "This will be the last straw! He'll be compelled to invent a new penance." "You're very trying, Magda.
Her gaze fastened on Magda's face and clung there unwaveringly while she read the letter. It was a wild, incoherent outpouring the headlong confession of a boy's half-crazed infatuation for a beautiful woman. A pathetic enough document in its confused medley of passionate demand and boyish humbleness.
The immediate result was an augmented post-bag for the Hermitage, and Gillian had to waste the better part of a couple of sunshiny days in writing round to Magda's friends assuring them of her continued existence and wellbeing, and thanking them for their kind inquiries.
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