“Well?” Davilof broke in upon her self-communings.  “Have I asked too high a price?”

Time was flying.  She must decide, and decide quickly.  She took her courage in both hands.

“No,” she returned quickly.  “I will dance with you, Antoine.”

He bowed.

“Our bargain is complete, then,” he said ironically.  “I shall be charmed to play for you, mademoiselle.”

An hour or so later the last burst of applause had died away, and the well-dressed crowd which had sat in enthralled silence while the Wielitzska danced emerged chattering and laughing from the great ballroom.

Their place was immediately taken by deft, felt-slippered men, who proceeded swiftly to clear away the seats and the drugget which had been laid to protect the surface of the dancing floor.  In the twinkling of an eye, as it were, they transformed what had been to all intents and purposes a concert-hall into a flower-decked ballroom, while the members of the band engaged for the dance began climbing agilely into their allotted places on the raised platform preparatory to tuning up for the evening’s work.

Magda, released at last from Virginie’s worshipfully careful hands, came slowly down the main staircase.  She was in black, diaphanous and elusive, from which her flower-pale face and shoulders emerged like a water-lily starring the dark pool on which it floats.  A crimson rose glowed just above her heart—­that and her softly scarlet lips the only touches of colour against the rare black-and-white loveliness of her.

She was descending the stairs reluctantly, mentally occupied in screwing up courage to fulfil her promise to Davilof.  A ’phone message from Friars’ Holm had come through saying that Coppertop was better.  All danger was passed and there was no longer any need for her to return early.  So it remained, now, for her to keep her pact with the musician.

As she rounded the last bend in the staircase, she saw that a man was standing with bent head at the foot of the stairs, apparently waiting for someone, and she threw a quick, nervous glance in the direction of the motionless figure, thinking it might be Davilof himself.  It would be like his eager impatience to await her coming there.  Then, as the lights gleamed on fair, crisply waving hair she realised that the man was Michael—­Michael, whom she believed to be on his way to Spain!

Perhaps it was merely chance, or perhaps it was at the direct inspiration of Lady Arabella, but, whatever may have been the cause, Gillian had not confided to Magda that Quarrington was to be at her godmother’s reception.  The sudden, totally unexpected meeting with him—­with this man who had contrived to dominate her thoughts so inexplicably—­startled a little cry of surprise from her lips.  She drew back abruptly, and then—­quite how it happened she could not tell—­but she missed her footing and fell.

For the fraction of a second she experienced a horrible sensation of utter helplessness to save herself; then Michael’s arms closed round her as he caught her before she reached the ground.