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Updated: June 19, 2025
And without knowing it, yielding to an impulse which she hardly recognised, Magda had taken the first step along the pathway of service and sacrifice trodden by those who love. "It seems as though you were destined to be the model of my two 'turning-point' pictures," commented Quarrington some days later, during one of the intervals when Magda was taking a brief rest.
She had expressed in her usual autocratic manner a wish that he should be presented to her, and had determined upon the evening of the first performance of The Swan-Maiden as the appointed time. Davilof appeared doubtful, and declared that Quarrington was leaving England and had already fixed the date of his departure.
What did affect her, however, absorbing her thoughts to the exclusion of all other matters, was that since the night of Lady Arabella's reception she had received neither word nor sign from Michael Quarrington. She could not understand it.
Quarrington briefly explained their predicament in the face of the Bella Donna's battered appearance a lengthy explanation was hardly necessary and a few minutes later the tug was steaming for Netherway harbour, towing the crippled yacht behind her. "Please, Marraine, will you give us your blessing?"
This last fortnight passed in daily companionship with Quarrington had proved a considerable strain.
The picture was a very well-known one. Everybody knew by whom it had been painted. "Then you must be Michael Quarrington?" "Yes. So now, we've been introduced, haven't we?" It seemed almost as if he had repented of his former churlish manner, and were endeavouring to atone for it. He talked to her about his work a little, then slid easily into the allied topics of music and books.
"That's an extraordinary friendship," commented Quarrington one day as he and his hostess stood at the window watching Gillian and Magda, returned from shopping in the village, approaching up the drive. "Mrs. Grey is so simple and to use an overworked word so essentially womanly." "And Magda?" The hard look deepened in Michael's eyes. "Essentially feminine," he answered curtly.
She had no intention of permitting him to request a dance at this late hour, however, and rose from her seat as he approached. "Ah! You, Mr. Quarrington?" she said gaily. "I am just going home. It's been a charming evening, hasn't it?" "Charming," he rejoined courteously. "May I see you to your car?"
The landlady who opened the door in response to her somewhat timid ring regarded her with a curiously surprised expression when she inquired if Mr. Quarrington were in. "I'll see, miss," she answered non-committally, "if you'll step inside." The unusual appearance of the big double studio where she was left to wait puzzled Gillian.
Quarrington told you he was leaving England on my account?" she asked. "I don't often meddle, Magda not really meddle." Lady Arabella's voice sounded unusually deprecating. "But I did in this instance. Because oh, my dear, he's the only man I've ever seen to whom I'd be glad to give you up. He'd he'd manage you, Magda."
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