It was easy enough for Magda to read between the lines.  If anything had happened to Kit Raynham—­if it were ultimately found that he had taken his own life—­society at large was prepared to censure her as more or less responsible for the catastrophe!

Side by side with this paragraph was another—­a panegyric on the perfection of Wielitzska’s dancing as a whole, and dwelling particularly upon her brilliant performance in The Swan-Maiden.

To Magda, the juxtaposition of the two paragraphs was almost unendurable.  That this supreme success should be marred and overshadowed by a possible tragedy!  She flung the newspaper to the ground.

“I think—­I think the world’s going mad!” she exclaimed in a choked voice.

Gillian looked across at her.  Intuitively she apprehended the mental conflict through which her friend was passing—­the nervous apprehension and resentment of the artiste that any extraneous happening should infringe upon her success contending with the genuine regret she would feel if some untoward accident had really befallen Kit Raynham.  And behind both these that strange, aloof detachment which seemed part of the very fibre of her nature, and which Gillian knew would render it almost impossible for her to admit or even realise that she was in any way responsible for Kit Raynham’s fate—­whatever it might be.

Of what had taken place in the winter-garden at Lady Arabella’s Gillian was, of course, in ignorance, and she had therefore no idea that the intrusion of Kit Raynham’s affairs at this particular juncture was doubly unwelcome.  But she could easily see that Magda was shaken out of her customary sang-froid.

“Don’t worry, Magda.”  The words sprang consolingly to her lips, but before she could give them utterance Melrose opened the door and announced that Lady Raynham was in the library.  Would Mademoiselle Wielitzska see her?

The old man’s face wore a look of concern.  They had heard all about the disappearance of Lady Raynham’s son in the servants’ hall—­the evening papers had had it.  Moreover, it always seems as though there exists a species of wireless telepathy by which the domestic staff of any household, great or small, speedily becomes acquainted with everything good, bad, or indifferent—­and particularly bad!—­which affects the folks “above-stairs.”

A brief uncomfortable pause succeeded Melrose’s announcement; then Magda walked quietly out of the room into the library.

Lady Raynham rose from a low chair near the fire.  She was a little, insignificant woman, rather unfashionably attired, with neat grey hair and an entirely undistinguished face, but as she stood there, motionless, waiting for Magda to come up to her, she was quite unconsciously impressive—­transformed by that tragic dignity with which great sorrow invests even the most commonplace of people.

Her thin, middle-aged features looked drawn and puckered by long hours of strain.  Her eyes were red-rimmed with sleeplessness.  They searched Magda’s face accusingly before she spoke.