“I could not have borne it if you had been hurt,” he declared vehemently.  “You ought not to go about by yourself.  It’s horrible to think of you—­in a street accident—­alone!”

“But I wasn’t alone.  A man who was in the other half of the accident—­the motor-bus half—­played the good Samaritan and carried me into his house, which happened to be close by.  He looked after me very well, I assure you.”

Davilof released her hand abruptly.  His face darkened.

“And this man?  Who was he?” he demanded jealously.  “I hate to think of any man—­a stranger—­touching you.”

“Nonsense!  Would you have preferred me to remain lying in the middle of the road?”

“You know I would not.  But I’d rather some woman had looked after you.  Do you know who the man was?”

“I did not—­at first.”

“But you do now.  Who was it?”

“No one you know, I think,” she answered provokingly.  His eyes flashed.

“Why are you making a mystery about it?” he asked suspiciously.  “You’re keeping something from me!  Who was this man?  Tell me his name.”

Magda froze.

“My dear Antoine!  Why this air of high tragedy?” she said lightly.  “And what on earth has it to do with you who the man was?”

“You know what it has to do with me——­”

“With my accompanist?”—­raising her brows delicately.

“No!”—­with sudden violence—­“With the man who loves you!  I’m that—­and you know it, Magda!  Could I play for you as I do if I did not understand your every mood and emotion?  You know I couldn’t!  And then you ask what it matters to me when some unknown man has held you in his arms, carried you into his house—­kissed you, perhaps, while you were unconscious!”—­his imagination running suddenly riot.

“Stop!  You’re going too far!” Magda checked him sharply.  “You’re always telling me you love me.  I don’t want to hear it.”  She paused, then added cruelly:  “I want you for playing my accompaniments, Davilof.  That’s all.  Do you understand?”

His eyes blazed.  With a quick movement he stepped in front of her.

“I’m a man—­as well as an accompanist,” he said hoarsely.  “One day you’ll have to reckon with the man, Magda!”

There was a new, unaccustomed quality in his voice.  Hitherto she had not taken his ardour very seriously.  He was a Pole and a musician, with all the temperament that might be expected from such a combination, and she had let it go at that, pushing his love aside with the careless hand of a woman to whom the incense of men’s devotion has been so freely offered as to have become commonplace.  But now the new ring of determination, of something unexpectedly dogged in his voice, poignantly recalled the warning uttered by Lady Arabella earlier in the day.

Magda’s nerve wavered.  A momentary panic assailed her.  Then she intuitively struck the right note.

“Ah, Davilof, don’t worry me now—­not to-night!” she said appealingly.  “I’m tired.  It’s been a bit of a strain—­the accident and—­and——­”