Behind the chimneystacks the grey fingers of dawn were creeping up in the sky as Magda drove home. In the wan light her face looked unusually pale, and beneath the soft lace at her breast her heart throbbed unevenly.
Five minutes ago Michael had held her in his arms and she had felt herself stirred to a sudden passionate surrender and response that frightened her.
Was this love—the love against which Diane had warned her? It had all happened so suddenly—that last, unpremeditated dance, those tense, vibrant moments in the winter-garden, then the jarring interruption of other couples seeking its fragrant coolness. And she and Michael suddenly apart.
Afterwards, only the barest conventionalities had passed between them. Nothing else had seemed possible. Their solitude had been ruthlessly destroyed; the outside world had thrust itself upon them without warning, jerking them back to the self-consciousness of suddenly arrested emotion.
“I must be going.” The stilted, banal little phrase had fallen awkwardly from Magda’s lips, and Quarrington had assented without comment.
She felt confused and bewildered. What had he meant? Had he meant anything at all? Was it possible that he believed in her now—trusted her? It had been in answer to that low, imploring cry of hers—“Saint Michel, can’t you believe in me?”—that he had taken her in his arms.
Looking out through the mist-blurred window at the pale streamers of dawnlight penciling the sky, Magda’s eyes grew wistful—wonderingly questioning the future. Was she, too, only waiting for the revelation of dawn—the dawn of that mysterious thing called love which can transmute this everyday old world of ours into heaven or hell?
Gillian was at the door to welcome her when at length the car pulled up at Friars’ Holm. She looked rather white and there were purple shadows under her eyes, but her lips smiled happily.
“Coppertop? How is he?” asked Magda quickly.
“Sleeping, thank God! He’s safe now! But—oh, Magda! It’s been awful!”