“Written to him?” A flash of the old defiant spirit sounded in Magda’s voice. “No, nor shall I.”
“Don’t be a fool, child. He’s probably learned something during this last twelve months—as well as you. Don’t let pride get in your way now.”
“It’s not pride. Marraine, I never knew—I never thought——Look at me! What have I to give Michael now? Have you forgotten that he’s an artist and that beauty means everything to him?”
“Well?”
“‘Well!’” Magda held out her hands. “Can’t you see that I’m changed? . . . Michael wouldn’t want me to pose for him as Circe now!”
“He wanted you for a wife—not a model, my dear. You can buy models at so much the hour.”
“Oh, Marraine! You won’t understand——”
Lady Arabella took the slender, work-roughened hands in hers.
“Perhaps I understand better than you think,” she said quietly. “There are other ways of assessing life than merely in terms of beauty. And you can believe this, too: you’ve lost nothing from the point of view of looks that a few months of normal healthy life won’t set right. Moreover, if you’d grown as plain as a pikestaff, I don’t think Michael would care twopence! He’s an artist, I know. He can’t help that, but he’s a man first. And he’s a man who knows how to love. Promise me one thing,” she went on insistently. “Promise that you’ll do nothing definite—yet. Not, at least, without consulting me.”
Magda hesitated.