But she was not in the least prepared for the man as he appeared when Virginie ushered him into the dressing-room and retired, discreetly closing the door behind her.  Magda, her hand outstretched to greet him, paused in sheer dismay, her arm falling slowly to her side.

She had never seen so great a change in any man.  His face was grey—­grey and lined like the face of a man who has had no sleep for days.  His shoulders stooped a little as though he were too weary to hold himself upright, and there was a curiously rigid look about his features, particularly the usually mobile mouth.  The only live thing about him seemed to be his eyes.  They blazed with a burning brightness that made her think of flame.  With it all, he was as immaculately groomed, his small golden beard as perfectly trimmed, as ever.

“Antoine!” His name faltered from Magda’s lips.  The man’s face, its beauty all marred by some terrible turmoil of the soul, shocked her.

He vouchsafed no greeting, but came swiftly to her side.

“Is it true?” he demanded imperiously.

She shrank back from him.  There was a dynamic force about him that startled her.

“Is what true?”

“Is it true that you’re engaged to Quarrington?”

“Of course it is.  It was in all the papers.  Didn’t you see it?”

“Yes, I saw it.  I didn’t believe it.  I was in Poland when I heard and I started for England at once.  But I was taken ill on the journey.  Since then I’ve been travelling night and day.”  He paused, adding in a tone of finality:  “You must break it off.”

“Break it off?  Are you crazy, Antoine?”

“No, I’m not crazy.  But you’re mine.  You’re meant for me.  And no other man shall have you.”

Magda’s first impulse was to order him out of the room.  But the man’s haggard face was so pitifully eloquent of the agony he had been enduring that she had not the heart.  Instead, she temporised persuasively.

“Don’t talk like that, Antoine.”  She spoke very gently.  “You don’t mean it, you know.  If—­if you do care for me as you say, you’d like me to be happy, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d make you happy,” he said hoarsely.

She shook her head.

“No,” she answered.  “You couldn’t make me happy.  Only Michael can do that.  So you must let me go to him. . . .  Antoine, I’d rather go with your good wishes.  Won’t you give them to me?  We’ve been friends so long—­”

“Friends?” he broke in fiercely.  “No!  We’ve never been ‘friends.’  I’ve been your lover from the first moment I saw you, and shall be your lover till I die!”

Magda retreated before his vehemence.  She was still wearing her costume of the Swan-Maiden, and there was something frailly virginal and elusive about her as she drew away from him that set the hot, foreign blood in him on fire.  In two strides he was at her side, his hands gripping her bare arms with a savage clasp that hurt her.