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Updated: June 19, 2025
But she had accepted the fact with apparent composure one's mental states, fortunately, being invisible to the curious eyes of the outside world! and Lady Arabella felt proportionately relieved. Nor had Quarrington himself evinced any particular emotion, either of dissatisfaction or otherwise, when she had confided to him the fact that she was expecting her god-daughter.
Gillian and Magda, laden with parcels, entered the room as she spoke, and, before Quarrington could prevent her, she had flashed round on her god-daughter. "Magda, here's Michael in need of a model for the best picture he's ever likely to paint, and it seems you exactly fit the bill. Will you sit for him?" Followed an astonished silence. Gillian glanced apprehensively towards Magda.
Simultaneously she and Michael glanced upwards to the sky overhead, startlingly transformed from an arch of quivering blue into a monotonous expanse of grey, across which came sweeping drifts of black cloud, heavy with storm. "By Jove! We're in for it!" muttered Quarrington. His voice held a sudden gravity.
An instant later and her voice roused Quarrington from the momentary reverie into which he had fallen. "How would this do?" He looked up, and as his gaze absorbed the picture before him an eager light of pure aesthetic satisfaction leaped into his eyes. "Hold that!" he exclaimed quickly. "Don't move, please!"
She drummed on the window with impatient fingers; and then, drowning the little tapping noise they made, came the sound of an opening door and Melrose's placid voice announcing: "Mr. Quarrington." Magda whirled round from the window. "Michael!" she exclaimed joyfully. "I was just wondering if you would be able to get over this evening. I suppose you came while you could!" laughing.
His tone was non-committal and she eyed him sharply. "Don't admire dancing, do you?" she threw at him. Quarrington regarded her with a humorous twinkle. "And I an artist? How can you ask, Lady Arabella?" "Well, you sounded supremely detached," she grumbled. "I think Mademoiselle Wielitzska's dancing the loveliest thing I have ever seen," he returned simply. The old woman vouchsafed him a smile.
And, thanks to an enterprising young journalist who chanced to be prowling about Netherway on that particular day, the London newspapers flared out into large headlines, accompanied by vivid and picturesque details of the narrow escape while yachting of the famous dancer and of the well-known artist, Michael Quarrington who, in some of the cheaper papers, was credited with having saved the Wielitzska's life by swimming ashore with her.
Half an hour later, when Michael's nurse returned, she found her patient packing a suit-case with the assistance of a pretty, brown-haired girl whose eyes shone with the unmistakable brightness of recent tears. "But you're not fit to travel!" she protested in horrified dismay. "You mustn't think of it, Mr. Quarrington." But Michael only laughed at her, defying her good-humouredly.
Quarrington had every intention of politely excusing himself. Instead of which he found himself replying: "With pleasure if Mademoiselle Wielitzska won't think I'm intruding." Lady Arabella chuckled. "Well, she intruded on you that day in the fog, didn't she? So you'll be quits." She glanced impatiently round the box. "Where on earth has Davilof vanished to? Has he gone up in flame?"
There was no choice but to obey, and silently Quarrington followed Mrs. Grey into the room. Magda's dressing-room at the Imperial Theatre was something rather special in the way of dressing-rooms.
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