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.
“I don’t often meddle, Magda—not really meddle.” Lady Arabella’s voice sounded unusually deprecating. “But I did in this instance. Because—oh, my dear, he’s the only man I’ve ever seen to whom I’d be glad to give you up. He’d—he’d manage you, Magda.”
Magda’s head was turned away, but the sudden scarlet flush that flew up into her face surged over even the white nape of her neck.
“And he loves you,” went on Lady Arabella, her voice softening incredibly. “It’s only a man here or there who really loves a woman, my dear. Most of them whip up a hotch-potch of quite commonplace feelings with a dash of passion and call it love, while all they actually want is a good housekeeper and presentable hostess and someone to carry on the name.”
No answer came from Magda, unless a stifled murmur could be regarded as such, and after a few minutes Lady Arabella spoke again, irritably.
“Why couldn’t you have left Kit alone?”
Magda raised her head.
“What has that to do with it?”
“Everything”—succinctly. “I told you I meddled. Michael Quarrington came to see me before he went away—and I know precisely why he left England. I asked him to go and see you before he sailed.”