“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.
“No wonder we are all in love with you!” he exclaimed in low, vehement tones; adding quickly, as he detected a flicker of apprehension in Magda’s eyes: “But you need not fear to dance with me. I will be as your brother—I will go on being ‘decent.’”