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Updated: June 19, 2025
"Has it occurred to you," he asked incisively, "what a night spent in the open might mean to you? Rheumatism is not precisely the kind of thing a dancer wants to cultivate." "Well, I'm not going below, anyway." She sat down firmly and Quarrington regarded her a moment in silence. "You baby!" he said at last in an amused voice.
Had he been a different type of man she might have credited him with having yielded to a sudden impulse, kissing her as some men will kiss women lightly and without giving or asking more than the moment's caress. But Quarrington was essentially not the man to be carried away by a passing fancy. That he had cared for her against his will, against his better judgment, Magda could not but realise.
That first glorious, irrecoverable hour when love had come into its own was past, and the consideration of things mundane was forcing itself on their notice more especially consideration of their particular plight. "It looks rather as though we may have to spend the night here," observed Quarrington, his eyes scanning the channel void of any welcome sight of sail or funnel.
The sight of him roused her to a fierce anger and resentment. "Well?" she repeated. "What do you want? To know the result of your handiwork?" bitterly. "You've been quite as successful as even you could have wished." "Don't," he said unevenly. "Magda, I can't bear it. You can't give up all this. Your dancing it's your life! I shall never forgive myself . . . I'll see Quarrington and tell him "
To Magda the brief sentence held all the finality of the bolting and barring of a door. So Quarrington, like everyone else, had heard the story of Kit Raynham! And he had judged and sentenced her. That night in the winter-garden he had been on the verge of trusting her, ready to believe in her, and she had vowed to herself that she would prove worthy of his trust.
Michael Quarrington told me the same thing in other words. Perhaps, perhaps it's true." "Of course, it's not true!" Gillian contradicted her warmly. "I only said it because I was so out of patience with you." "Everybody seems to be hating me rather badly just now." Magda spoke somewhat forlornly. "And yet I don't think I'm any different from usual." "I don't think you are," retorted Gillian.
"I want you to invite Magda to stay with you, please," she informed Lady Arabella abruptly. "Of course I will," she replied. "But why? You've got a reason." Gillian nodded. "Yes," she acknowledged quietly. "I'm going to Paris to find Michael." Lady Arabella, whose high spirits had wilted a little in the face of the double disappointment regarding any answer from Quarrington, beamed satisfaction.
Magda interrupted almost rudely. She was moved by a perfectly irrational impulse to stop him, to delay what he had to say. "Why, Quarrington Michael Quarrington. It seems he has married a Spanish woman a rather lovely person who had been sitting to him for one of his pictures. That's the latest bit of news."
Quarrington lit a cigarette. "It's not a pretty story," he remarked harshly. Magda glanced towards the picture. The enchanting, tilted face smiled at her from the canvas, faintly derisive. "Tell it me," was all she said. "There's very little to tell," he answered briefly. "There was a man and his wife and another woman.
"You were very unkind to me that day," she said at last. Their eyes met and in hers was something soft and dangerously disarming. Quarrington got up suddenly from his chair. "Perhaps I was unkind to you so that I might not be unkind to myself," he replied curtly. Magda's soft laugh rippled out. "But how selfish! And and aren't you being rather mysterious?" "Am I?" he returned pointedly.
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