Lady Arabella shot a swift glance at her.

“He’s just one of a crowd?” she suggested tartly.

Magda assented indifferently.

“You’re wrong—­quite wrong,” returned her godmother crisply.  “Antoine Davilof is not one of a crowd—­never will be!  He’s half a Pole, remember.”

Magda smiled.

“And I’m half a Russian.  It must be a case of deep calling to deep,” she suggested mockingly.

Lady Arabella’s shining needles clicked as they came to an abrupt stop.

“Does that mean you’re in love with him?” she asked.

Magda stared.

“Good gracious, no!  I’m never in love.  You know that.”

“That doesn’t prevent my hoping you may develop—­some day—­into a normal God-fearing woman,” retorted the other.

“And learn to thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love?” Magda laughed lightly.  “I shan’t.  At least, I hope not.  Judging from my friends and acquaintances, the condition of being in love is a most unpleasant one—­reduces a woman to a humiliating sense of her own unworthiness and keeps her in a see-saw state of emotional uncertainty.  No, thank you!  No man is worth it!”

Lady Arabella looked away.  Her hard, bright old eyes held a sudden wistfulness foreign to them.

“My dear—­one man is.  One man in every woman’s life is worth it.  Only we don’t always find it out in time.”

“Why, Marraine—­you don’t mean—­you weren’t ever——­”

Lady Arabella rose suddenly and came across to where Magda stood by the fire, one narrow foot extended to the cheerful warmth.

“Never mind what I mean,” she said, and her voice sounded a little uncertain.  “Only, if it comes your way, don’t miss the best thing this queer old world of ours has to offer.  If it brings you nothing else, love at least leaves you memories.  Even that’s something.”

Magda glanced at her curiously.  Somehow she had never imagined that behind the worldly-wise old woman’s sharp speeches and grim, ironic humour there lay the half-buried memory of some far-distant romance.  Yet now in the uneven tones of her voice she recognised the throb of an old wound.

“And meanwhile”—­Lady Arabella suddenly resumed in her usual curt manner—­“meanwhile you might play fair with one or two of those boys you have trailing around—­Kit Raynham for instance.”

“I don’t understand,” began Magda.

“You understand perfectly.  A man of the world’s fair game.  He can look after himself—­and probably sizes you up for what you are—­a phenomenally successful dancer, who regards her little court of admirers as one of the commonplaces of existence—­like her morning cup of tea.  But these boys—­they look upon you as a woman, even a possible wife.  And then they proceed to fall in love with you!”

Magda’s foot tapped impatiently on the floor.

“What’s this all leading up to?”

Lady Arabella met her glance squarely.