As they entered, Antoine Davilof broke away from a little group of men with whom he had been conversing and came to Magda’s side.

“The next dance is just beginning,” he said.  “Are you engaged?  Or may I have it?”

“No, I’m not engaged,” she answered.

She spoke flurriedly.  She was dreading this dance with Antoine.  She felt as though the evening had drained her of her strength and left her unequal to a battle of wills should Antoine prove to be in one of his hotheaded moods.

She glanced round her with a hint of desperation in her eyes.  If only Michael had asked her to dance with him instead!  But he had bowed and left her as soon as the musician joined them, so that there was no escape to be hoped for that way.

Davilof was watching her curiously.

“I believe,” he said, “that you’re afraid to dance with me!”

On an impulse she answered him with perfect candour.

“I believe I am.”

“Then why did you promise?  You did promise, you know.”

“I know.  I promised.  I promised because Coppertop had croup and they had telephoned down for his mother to go to him.  And you wouldn’t accompany me unless I gave you this dance.  So I promised it.”

Davilof’s eyes held a curiously concentrated expression.

“And you did this so that Mrs. Grey could go to her little boy—­to nurse him?”

Magda inclined her head.

“Yes,” she said simply.

“But you hated asking me—­loathed it!”

“Yes,” she said again.

He was silent for a moment.  Then he drew back from her.  “That was kind.  Extraordinarily kind,” he commented slowly.  His expression was one of frank amazement.  “I did not believe you could be so kind—­so womanly.”

“Womanly?” she queried, puzzled.

“Yes.  For is not a woman—­a good woman—­always ready to sacrifice herself for those she loves?”

Magda almost jumped.  It was as though she were listening to an echo of Quarrington’s own words.

“And you sacrificed yourself,” continued Davilof.  “Sacrificed your pride—­crushed it down for the sake of Mrs. Grey and little Coppertop.  Mademoiselle”—­he bowed gravely—­“I kiss your hands.  And see, I too, I can be generous.  I release you from your promise.  I do not claim that dance.”

If any single thing could have astonished Magda more than another, it was that Davilof should voluntarily, in the circumstances, renounce the dance she had promised him.  It argued a fineness of perception and a generosity for which she would never have given him credit.  She felt a little warm rush of gratitude towards him.

“No, no!” she cried impulsively, “you shan’t give up your dance.”  Then, as he still hesitated:  “I should like to dance with you—­really I should, Antoine.  You’ve been so—­so decent.”

Davilof’s face lit up.  He looked radiant—­like a child that has been patted on the back and told it is good.