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Groping dimly for some light that might elucidate the problems which bewildered her, Magda clutched at the words as though they were a revelation. They seemed to point to the only way by which she might repair the past. Catherine, watching closely the changes on the pale, sensitive face, spoke again.
'That's your own fault, why didn't you speak before? Your wages are due, and I will give you six roubles. Maciek embraced his feet.... 'But mind you buy the boots, and don't drink away the money. They all started; Slimak walked with his wife, Magda with the boys, and Maciek by himself at a little distance.
He did not speak for a minute or two. Then: "You've been playing with me, then fooling me?" he said heavily. Magda remained silent. The heavy, laboured speech seemed to hold something minatory in it the sullen lowering which precedes a tempest. "Answer me!" he persisted. "Was that it?" "I I suppose it was," she faltered. He drew still closer and instinctively she shrank away.
He smiled and once more Magda was aware of the sense of familiarity even with that whimsical, crooked smile. "I see," he replied composedly. "Then you think I ought to have been overwhelmed with delight that your car cannoned into my bus incidentally I barked my shins badly in the general mix-up and that I had to haul you out and bring you round from a faint and so on?"
Lady Raynham's final thrust, stabbing at her with its stern denunciation, brought back vividly to Magda Michael Quarrington's bitter speech "I've no place for your kind of woman." Side by side with the recollection came a sudden dart of fear. How would all this stir about Kit Raynham the impending gossip and censure which seemed likely to be accorded her affect him?
"I shall not easily forget to-night," he said rather low, drawing a chair up beside her. "You liked it, then?" she asked hesitatingly almost shyly. "'Like' is hardly the word." Magda flashed him a swift glance. "And yet," she said slowly, "I'm the 'type of woman you hate." "You make it rather difficult to maintain the point of view," he admitted. She was silent a moment.
"There won't be a foal in it like that little wan," said Patsy, looking at a tall chestnut foal, the slender legs of which seemed as though they might break with a little pressure, so delicate were they. "The filly won't be in it, Master Terry, wid your Mamma's horse. I've never seen a better foal. He'll win the Derby yet. Woa, Magda, woa, my beauty."
It seemed as though he were anxious to restore the conversation to a lighter vein, and Magda responded gladly. "I'm quite rested now. Shall I pose again?" she suggested a few minutes later. Michael assented and, picking up his palette, began squeezing out fresh shining little worms of paint on to it while Magda reassumed her pose.
And perhaps if Magda had never crossed his path Dan Storran might have gone his way contentedly, toiling from sun-up to sun-down till all his days were finished. Even although she had crossed it, she might still have left him pretty much as she found him unawakened to the deeps of his own nature if she had remained in her present ambiguous mood, half-remorseful, half indifferent.
"Your type is never harmless, my dear. Unless you fall in love, you'll be an unexploded mine till the day of your death." "That nearly occurred to-day, by the way," vouchsafed Magda tranquilly. "In which case," smiling "you'd have been spared any further anxiety on Coppertop's account." "What do you mean?" demanded Gillian, startled. "I mean that I've had an adventure this afternoon.
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