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Updated: June 19, 2025
Magda uttered a stifled cry of pity, but Quarrington seemed not to hear it. "That woman was a twentieth-century Circe." He paused, then added with grim conviction: "There's no forgiveness for a woman like that." "Ah! Don't say that!" The words broke impulsively from Magda's lips.
Oh, Dan" she forced an uncertain little laugh to her lips "if you knew me better you'd know that I never do 'mean anything'!" The bitter intonation in her voice the gibe at her own poor ruins of love fallen about her was lost on him. He was in total ignorance of her friendship with Quarrington. But the plain significance of her words came home to him clearly enough.
He drew her into his arms and his lips found hers. "I think it is," he agreed. Another hour went by, and still there came no sign of any passing vessel. "Why the devil isn't there a single tug passing up and down just when we happen to want one?" demanded Quarrington irately of the unresponsive universe. He swung round on Magda.
His indictment of her had left nothing to the imagination. She felt stunned, and, for the first time in her life, a little unwilling doubt of herself assaulted her. Was she really anything at all like the woman Michael Quarrington had pictured? A woman without heart or conscience the "kind of woman he had no place for"? She winced a little at the thought.
"Of course it will contribute towards finishing the picture." Quarrington answered Magda's laughing comment composedly. "A blow like this will have done you all the good in the world, and I shan't have you collapsing on my hands again as you did a week ago." "Oh, then, you brought me out on hygienic grounds alone?" derided Magda. She was feeling unaccountably happy and light-hearted.
Quarrington chanced to glance out of the window where the street lamps were now glimmering serenely through a clear dusk. The fog had lifted. "Perhaps it's just as well," he said shortly. "I was beginning " He checked himself and glanced at her with a sudden stormy light in his eyes. "Beginning what?" she asked a little breathlessly.
There was a dynamic force about him that startled her. "Is what true?" "Is it true that you're engaged to Quarrington?" "Of course it is. It was in all the papers. Didn't you see it?" "Yes, I saw it. I didn't believe it. I was in Poland when I heard and I started for England at once. But I was taken ill on the journey. Since then I've been travelling night and day."
She felt as though Lady Arabella had suddenly let off a firework in their midst. Magda halted in the process of unwrapping a small parcel. "What is the subject of the picture?" There was a perceptible pause. Then Lady Arabella took the bull by the horns. "Circe," she said tersely. "Oh!" Magda seemed to reflect. "She turned men into swine, didn't she?" She looked across at Quarrington.
It was inexplicable, but somehow the knowledge that Quarrington was going away seemed to take all the savour out of things. It was only by a supreme effort that she contrived to keep her tone as light and unconcerned as his own as she continued: "And then after Paris?" "After Paris? Oh, Spain possibly. Or the Antipodes!" with a short laugh.
"The whole world will be saying it to-morrow," observed Quarrington quietly. Here Virginie created a diversion by handing round cups of freshly brewed tea. "You'll get nerves drinking tea at this hour of the night," commented Lady Arabella, accepting a cup with alacrity, nevertheless. "I take it very weak," protested Magda, smiling faintly. "It's the only thing I like after dancing."
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