Magda rose, and picking up her big black hat set it on her head at precisely the right angle, and proceeded to spear it through with a wonderful black-and-gold hatpin of Chinese workmanship.
Lady Arabella shot a swift glance at her.
“He’s just one of a crowd?” she suggested tartly.
Magda assented indifferently.
“You’re wrong—quite wrong,” returned her godmother crisply. “Antoine Davilof is not one of a crowd—never will be! He’s half a Pole, remember.”
Magda smiled.
“And I’m half a Russian. It must be a case of deep calling to deep,” she suggested mockingly.
Lady Arabella’s shining needles clicked as they came to an abrupt stop.
“Does that mean you’re in love with him?” she asked.
Magda stared.