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He was breathing rather fast, but in some curious way he seemed to have regained his self-control. It was as though he had only slipped the leash of passion so that she might, as he said, comprehend his love for her. "Do you think I'll give you up? I tell you I'd rather kill you than see you Quarrington's wife." Once more she made an effort to release herself.
It almost seemed as though that grey curtain of fog had been a symbol of the shadow which was beginning to dog her footsteps the shadow which stern moralists designate "unpleasant consequences." First there had been Michael Quarrington's plain and candid utterance of his opinion of her. Then had followed Davilof's headlong wooing and his refusal, when thwarted, to play for her again.
Michael Quarrington's got too much good red blood in his veins to live the life of a hermit. He's a man, thank goodness, not a mystical dreamer like Hugh Vallincourt. And he'll come back to his mate as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow." "I wish I felt as confident as you do." "I wish I could make sure of putting my hand on Magda when he comes," grumbled Lady Arabella.
Quarrington's gaze was riveted on her slim, supple figure with its perfect symmetry and rare grace of limb. It was difficult to interpret his expression. Magda wondered if he were going to reject her offer. He seemed to be fighting something out with himself pulled two ways the artist in him combating the man's impulse to resist her. Suddenly the artist triumphed.
The landlady, a smiling, rosy-cheeked woman, with a chubby little brown-faced son hiding shy embarrassment behind her ample skirts, greeted the travellers hospitably. But when they mentioned Quarrington's name a look of sympathetic concern overspread her comely face. Yes, he was there.
Come along and tell me all about your Devonshire trip. I suppose," she went on, "you heard the news of Michael Quarrington's marriage? Or didn't you get any newspapers down in your benighted village?" "No, we had no London papers," replied Gillian doubtfully. "But I don't understand. Mr. Quarrington isn't married, is he? I thought I thought " "You thought he was in love with Magda. So he was.
"Orders from headquarters?" smiling up at him. "Exactly." He held out his arm and they moved away together. As they passed through the crowded rooms one man murmured ironically to another: "Quarrington's got it badly, I should say." The second man glanced after the pair with amused eyes. "So he's the latest victim, is he? I head young Raynham's nose was out of joint."
As much actress as dancer and both rather superlatively." There was an odd note in Quarrington's voice, as if he were forcibly repressing some less measured form of words. Davilof glanced at him sharply. "You think so?" he said curtly. The musician's hazel eyes were burning feverishly.
Lady Raynham's final thrust, stabbing at her with its stern denunciation, brought back vividly to Magda Michael Quarrington's bitter speech "I've no place for your kind of woman." Side by side with the recollection came a sudden dart of fear. How would all this stir about Kit Raynham the impending gossip and censure which seemed likely to be accorded her affect him?
But this quiet, purposeful composure which had succeeded it filled her with an odd kind of misgiving. "It's absurd to talk like that," she said, holding on desperately to her self-possession. "It's silly and melodramatic, and only makes me realise how glad I am I shall be Michael's wife and not yours." "You will never be Quarrington's wife." He spoke with conviction.
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