Magda twisted her slim shoulders irritably when taken to task.

“I think I’m tired of being blamed for Kit Raynham’s idiocy,” she said, a note of resentment in her voice.  “No one seems to consider my side of the question!  I was merely nice to him in an ordinary sort of way, and there wasn’t the least need for him to have chucked up everything and rushed off to the other side of the world like that. I couldn’t help it!”

Lady Arabella made a gesture of despair.

“I don’t believe you could,” she acknowledged helplessly.  “I’m really beginning to have a sneaking sympathy with poor Hugh for shelving the responsibility of having brought you into the world.  But at least you might refrain from baby-snatching!” she added wrathfully.

Magda protested.

“Marraine!  You’re abominable!  Kit is four-and-twenty if he’s a day.  And I’m barely twenty.”

“That has nothing whatever to do with it,” retorted Lady Arabella incisively.  “Kit is a babe in arms, while you—­you’re as old as Eve.”  She paused.  “Anyway, you’ve broken his heart and driven him to the ends of the earth.”

“Where he’ll probably paste together the pieces and offer the repaired article to someone else.”

Lady Arabella looked up sharply.  Cynicism was usually far enough away from Magda.  She was too full of the joy of life and of the genuine delight an artist finds in his art to have place for it.  Egoist she might be, with the unthinking egotism of youth, irresponsible in her gay acceptance of the love and admiration showered on her, but there was nothing bitter or sour in her composition.  Lady Arabella, seeking an explanation for the unwonted, cast her mind back on the events of the last few weeks—­and smiled to herself.

“I suppose you know you’ve driven someone else out of England besides Kit Raynham?” she said.

“Whom do you mean?”

Magda spoke mechanically.  A faint colour crept up under her white skin, and she avoided her godmother’s keen gaze.

“That charming artist-man—­Michael Quarrington.”

“Has—­he left England?” Magda’s throat felt suddenly parched.  Then with an effort she went on:  “You’re surely not going to put the entire steamship’s passenger list down to me, Marraine?”

“Only those names for which I happen to know you’re responsible.”

“You don’t know about Saint Mi—­about Mr. Quarrington.  It’s mere guesswork on your part.”

“Most of the things we really know in life are mere guesswork,” replied Lady Arabella sagely.  “But in this case——­”

“Yes.  In this case?”

There was a long pause.  Then Lady Arabella answered slowly: 

“In this case I’m speaking from first-hand information.”

Magda’s slender figure tautened.  She moistened her lips.

“Do you mean that Mr. Quarrington told you he was leaving England on my account?” she asked.