The landlady who opened the door in response to her somewhat timid ring regarded her with a curiously surprised expression when she inquired if Mr. Quarrington were in.

“I’ll see, miss,” she answered non-committally, “if you’ll step inside.”

The unusual appearance of the big double studio where she was left to wait puzzled Gillian.  All the familiar tapestries and cushions and rare knick-knacks which wontedly converted the further end of it into a charming reception room were gone.  The chairs were covered in plain holland, the piano sheeted.  But the big easel, standing like a tall cross in the cold north light, was swathed in a dust-sheet.  Gillian’s heart misgave her.  Was she too late?  Had Michael—­gone away?

A moment later a quick, resolute footstep reassured her.  The door opened and Michael himself came in.  He paused on the threshold as he perceived who his visitor was, then came forward and shook hands with his usual grave courtesy.  After that, he seemed to wait as though for some explanation of her visit.

Gillian found herself nervously unready.  All the little opening speeches she had prepared for the interview deserted her suddenly, driven away by her shocked realisation of the transformation which the few days since she had last seen him had wrought in the man beside her.

His face was lined and worn.  The grey eyes were sunken and burned with a strange, bitter brilliance.  Only the dogged, out-thrust jaw remained the same as ever—­obstinate and unconquerable.  Twice she essayed to speak and twice failed.  The third time the words came stumblingly.

“Michael, what—­what does it mean—­all this?” She indicated the holland-sheeted studio with a gesture.

“It means that I’m going away,” he replied.  “I’m packing now.  I leave England to-morrow.”

“You mustn’t go!”

The words broke from her imperatively, like a mandate.

He glanced at her quickly and into his eyes came a look of comprehension.

“You’re a good friend,” he said quietly.  “But I must go.”

“No, no, you mustn’t!  Listen—­”

“Nothing can alter my decision,” he interrupted in a tone of absolute finality.  “Nothing you could say, Gillian—­so don’t say it.”

“But I must!” she insisted.  “Oh, Michael, I’m not going to pretend that Magda hasn’t been to blame—­that it isn’t all terrible!  But if you saw her—­now—­you’d have to forgive her and love her again.”  She spoke with a simple sincerity that was infinitely appealing.

“I’ve never ceased to love her,” he replied, still in that quiet voice of repressed determination.

“Then if you love, her, can’t you forgive her?  She’s had everything against her from the beginning, both temperament and upbringing, and on top of that there’s been the wild success she’s had as a dancer.  You can’t judge her by ordinary standards of conduct.  You can’t!  It isn’t fair.”