“I want you to leave Kit Raynham alone.  His mother has been to me—­Magda, I’m sick of having their mothers come to me!—­and begged me to interfere.  She says you’re ruining the boy’s prospects.  He’s a brilliant lad, and they expect him to do something rather special.  And now he’s slacking completely.  He’s always on your doorstep.  If you care about him—­do you, Magda?—­tell him so.  But, if you don’t, for goodness’ sake send him about his business.”

She waited quietly for an answer.  Magda slipped into a big fur-coat and caught up her gloves.  Then she turned to her godmother abruptly.

“Lady Raynham is absurd.  I can’t prevent Kit’s making a fool of himself if he wants to.  And—­and”—­rather helplessly—­“I can’t help it if I don’t fall in love to order.”  She kissed her godmother lightly.  “So that’s that.”

A minute later Lady Arabella’s butler had swung open the front door, and Magda crossed the pavement and entered her waiting car.

Outside, the fog hung like a thick pall over London—­thick enough to curtain the windows of the car with a blank, grey veil and to make progress through the streets a difficult and somewhat dangerous process.  Magda snuggled into her furs and leant back against the padded cushions.  All sight of the outside world was cut off from her, except for the blurred gleam of an occasional street-lamp or the menacing shape of a motor-bus looming suddenly alongside, and she yielded herself to the train of thought provoked by her talk with Lady Arabella.

In a detached sort of way she felt sorry about Kit Raynham—­principally because Lady Arabella, of whom she was exceedingly fond, seemed vexed about the matter.  It had not taken her long to discover, when as a child she had come to live with her godmother, the warm heart that concealed itself beneath the old lady’s somewhat shrewish exterior.  And to Lady Arabella the advent of her god-child had been a matter for pure rejoicing.

Having no children of her own, she lavished a pent-up wealth of affection upon Magda of which few would have thought her capable, and though she was by no means niggardly in her blame of Hugh Vallincourt for his method of shelving his responsibilities, she was grateful that his withdrawal into the monastic life had been the means of throwing Magda into her care.  Five years later, when death claimed him, she found he had appointed her the child’s sole guardian.

True to her intention, she had asked the opinion of Lydia Tchinova, the famous dancer, and under Madame Tchinova’s guidance Magda had received such training that when she came to make her debut she leaped into fame at once.  Hers was one of those rare cases where the initial drudgery and patient waiting that attends so many careers was practically eliminated, and at the age of twenty she was probably the most talked-of woman in London.

She had discarded the family surname for professional purposes, and appeared in public under the name of Wielitzska—­“to save the reigning Vallincourts from a soul convulsion,” as she observed with a twinkle.  During the last year, influenced by the growing demands of her vocation, she had quitted her godmother’s hospitable roof and established herself in a house of her own.