The grey, contemptuous eyes swept her face suddenly.

“My experience has not led me to think so.”

There was an almost calculated insolence in the careless answer.  It was as though he had tossed her an epitome of his opinion of her.  Magda’s spirit rose in opposition.

“Perhaps your experience has been somewhat limited,” she observed.

“Perhaps it has.  If so, I have no wish to extend it.”

In spite of Michael’s taciturnity—­or perhaps, more truly, on account of it—­Magda’s spirits lightened curiously after that first interview with him.  The mere fact of his presence had stilled the incessant ache at her heart—­the ache to see him again and hear his voice.  And the morose cynicism of his thrusts at her was just so much proof that, although he had forced himself to remain out of England for a year and a half, yet he had not thereby achieved either peace of mind or indifference.  Magda was too true a daughter of Eve not to know that a man doesn’t expend powder and shot on a woman to whom he is completely indifferent.

The next day or two were not without their difficulties, as Lady Arabella speedily realised.  A triangular party, when two out of the three share certain poignant memories, is by no means the easiest thing to stage-manage.  There were inevitable awkward moments that could only be surmounted by the exercise of considerable tact, and the hours which Lady Arabella passed sitting to Quarrington for her portrait, while Magda wandered alone through the woods or sculled a solitary boat up the river, helped to minimize the strain considerably.

Nevertheless, it was a relief to everyone concerned when Gillian and Coppertop were added to the party.  A strained atmosphere was somewhat difficult of accomplishment anywhere within the joyous vicinity of the latter, while Gillian’s tranquil and happy nature reacted on the whole household.

“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.  “A quite different thing.”

“She hasn’t found her soul yet,” said Lady Arabella.  Adding with sudden daring:  “Suppose you find it for her, Michael?”

“I don’t think the search would interest me,” he returned coolly.  “I haven’t the instinct of the prospector.”  He paused, then went on slowly and as though making the admission almost against his will:  “But I’d like to paint her.”

“A portrait of her?”

“No, not a portrait.”

“Then you mean you want her to sit for your ’Circe’?”

Lady Arabella knew all about the important picture he had in mind to paint.  They had often discussed it together during the progress of the sittings she had been giving him, and she was aware that so far he had been unable to find a suitable model.