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Updated: June 19, 2025
Ahoy there!" She ran up on deck. Approaching them was a small steam-tug, and once again Quarrington sent his voice ringing lustily across the water, while he flourished a large white handkerchief in the endeavour to attract the attention of those on board. Suddenly the tug saw them and, altering her course, came fussing up alongside.
She looked infinitely young as she lay there, her slender, pliant limbs relaxed in untroubled slumber. Lady Arabella, with Quarrington sitting next to her in the box, heard the quick intake of his breath as he leaned suddenly forward. "Yes, it has quite a familiar look," she observed. "Reminds me of your 'Repose of Titania."
Magda raised her head. "What has that to do with it?" "Everything" succinctly. "I told you I meddled. Michael Quarrington came to see me before he went away and I know precisely why he left England. I asked him to go and see you before he sailed." "What did he say?" The words were almost inaudible. Lady Arabella hesitated. Then she quoted quickly: "'There is no need. She will understand."
Then a look of undisguised satisfaction dawned in her face. "Do you mean " she began eagerly. "We've been and gone and got engaged," explained Quarrington. "My dears!" Lady Arabella jumped up with the agility of twenty rather than seventy and proceeded to pour out her felicitations.
When the improvised feast was over, Quarrington explored the recesses of the tiny hold and unearthed a lantern, which he proceeded to light and attach to the broken mast. It burned with a flickering, uncertain light, momentarily threatening to go out altogether. "We're not precisely well-equipped with lights," he remarked grimly. "But at least that's a precaution as long as it lasts!
And, anyway" with a wicked little grin "Davilof won't have quite such a clear coast as he anticipated." "But if Michael Quarrington is married " "He isn't," interrupted Lady Arabella briskly. "It was contradicted in the papers the very next morning. Only I suppose Davilof hustled off to Devonshire in such a hurry that he never saw it. "Contradicted? But how did such a mistake arise?"
"That charming artist-man Michael Quarrington." "Has he left England?" Magda's throat felt suddenly parched. Then with an effort she went on: "You're surely not going to put the entire steamship's passenger list down to me, Marraine?" "Only those names for which I happen to know you're responsible." "You don't know about Saint Mi about Mr. Quarrington. It's mere guesswork on your part."
She had just emerged from its white-tiled, silver-tapped luxury a few minutes before Lady Arabella, together with Gillian and Michael Quarrington, presented themselves at her dressing-room door, and they found her ensconced in an easy-chair by the fire, sipping a cup of steaming hot tea. "I've brought Mr. Quarrington to see you," announced Lady Arabella.
Quarrington when finally they found themselves confronted by the concierge. "Monsieur Quarrington?" Hands, shoulders, and eyebrows all seemed to gesticulate at once as madame la concierge made answer. "But he has been gone from here two no, three months. Perhaps madame did not know?" "No," said Gillian. "I didn't know.
"I suppose you're starving?" he went on, in his voice a species of savage discontent that unreasonable fury to which masculine temperament is prone when confronted with an obstacle which declines to yield either to force or persuasion. Magda laughed outright. "I'll admit to being hungry. Aren't you? . . . It's horribly unromantic of us, Michael," she added regretfully. Quarrington grinned.
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