He walked away and, seating himself at a desk in the window, appeared to forget all about her, while his pen travelled swiftly over the sheet of notepaper he had drawn towards him.

Magda watched him with rebellious eyes.  Gradually, however, the rebellion died out of them, replaced by a puzzled look of interest.  There was something vaguely familiar about the man.  Had she ever seen him before?  Or was it merely one of those chance resemblances which one comes across occasionally?  That fair hair with its crisp wave, the lean, square-jawed face, above all, the dark-grey eyes with their bright, penetrating glance—­why did she feel as though every detail of the face were already known to her?

She failed to place the resemblance, however, and finally, with a little sigh of fatigue, she gave up the attempt.  Her brain still felt muddled and confused from the blow she had received.  Perhaps later she would be able to think things out more clearly.

Meanwhile she lay still, her eyes resting languidly on the face that so puzzled her.  It was not precisely a handsome face, but there was a certain rugged fineness in its lines that lifted it altogether out of the ruck of the ordinary.  It held its contradictions, too.  Notwithstanding the powerful, determined jaw, the mouth had a sensitive upward curve at the corners which gave it an expression of singular sweetness, and beneath the eyes were little lines which qualified their dominating glance with a hint of whimsical humour.

The clock ticked on solemnly.  Presently Mrs. Braithwaite bustled in with the tea and withdrew again.  But the man remained absorbed in his writing, apparently oblivious of everything else.

Magda, who was rapidly recovering, eyed the teapot longingly.  She was just wondering whether she dared venture to draw his attention to its arrival or whether he would snap her head off if she did, when he looked up suddenly with that swift, hawk-like glance of his.

“Ready for some tea?” he queried.

She nodded.

“Yes.  Am I”—­sarcastically—­“allowed to get up now?”

He surveyed her consideringly.

“No, I think not,” he said at last.  “But as the mountain can’t go to Mahomet, Mahomet shall come to the mountain.”

He crossed the room and, while Magda was still wondering what he proposed to do, he stooped and dexterously wheeled the couch with its light burden close up to the tea-table.

“Now, I’ll fix these cushions,” he said.  And with deft hands he rearranged the cushions so that they should support her comfortably while she drank her tea.

“You would make a very good nurse, I should think,” commented Magda, somewhat mollified.

“Thanks,” was all he vouchsafed in answer.

He busied himself pouring out tea, then brought her cup and placed it beside her on a quaint little table of Chinese Chippendale.

“Mrs. Braithwaite—­my housekeeper—­is looking after your chauffeur in the kitchen,” he observed presently.  “Possibly you may be interested to hear”—­sarcastically—­“that he wasn’t hurt in the smash-up.”