“Yes, he must have.  Listen to this, ’Mr. Quarrington’s wonderful creations are evidently not entirely the fruit of the spirit, since we understand that his staple breakfast dish consists of a couple of underdone cutlets—­so lightly cooked, in fact, as to be almost raw.’  I’m glad I’ve learned that,” pursued Magda earnestly.  “It seems to me an important thing for a wife to know.  Don’t you think so, Gillian?”

Gillian shouted with delight.

“Of course I do!  Do let’s ask Michael to lunch and offer him a couple of raw cutlets on a charger.”

“No,” insisted Magda firmly.  “I shall keep a splendid treat like that for him till after we’re married.  Even at a strictly conservative estimate it should be worth a new hat to me.”

“Or a dose of arsenic in your next cup of tea,” suggested Gillian, giggling.

The following evening was the occasion of Magda’s first appearance at the Imperial after the publication of her engagement, and the theatre was packed from floor to ceiling.  “House Full” boards were exhibited outside at quite an early hour, and when Magda appeared on the stage she was received with such enthusiasm that for a time it was impossible to proceed with the ballet.  When finally the curtain fell on what the critics characterised next day as “the most appealing performance of The Swan-Maiden which Mademoiselle Wielitzska has yet given us,” she received an absolute ovation.  The audience went half-crazy with excitement, applauding deliriously, while the front of the stage speedily became converted into a veritable bank of flowers, from amidst which Magda bowed and smiled her thanks.

She enjoyed every moment of it, every handclap.  She was radiantly happy, and this spontaneous sharing in her happiness by the big public which idolised her served but to intensify it.  She was almost crying as she returned to her dressing-room after taking a dozen or more calls, and when, as usual, Virginie met her on the threshold, she dropped the great sheaf of lilies she was carrying and flung her arms round the old woman’s neck.

“Oh, the dears!” she exclaimed.  “The blessed dears!  Virginie, I believe I’m the happiest woman alive!”

“And who should be, mon petite chou, if not thou?” returned the old woman with conviction.  “Of course they love thee! Mais bien sur!  Doest thou not dance for them as none else can dance and give them angel visions that they could not imagine for themselves?” She paused.  Then thrusting her hand suddenly into the pocket of her apron and producing a card:  “Tiens!  I forgot!  Monsieur Davilof waits.  Will mademoiselle receive him?”

Magda nodded.  She had not seen Antoine since her return from Netherway.  He had been away in Poland, visiting his mother whom, by the way, he adored.  But as her engagement to Michael was now public she was anxious to get her first meeting with the musician over.  He would probably rave a little, despairing in the picturesque and dramatic fashion characteristic of him, and the sooner he “got it out of his system,” as Gillian had observed on one occasion, the better for everyone concerned.  So Magda braced herself for the interview, and prepared to receive a tragical and despondent Davilof.