Magda pressed her lips together. Then, with an effort:
“No,” she admitted.
“And so, just because I treated you as I would any other woman, and made no pretence of fatuous delight over your presence here, you supposed I must be ignorant of your identity? Was that it?”
Magda writhed under the cool, ironical questioning with its undercurrent of keen contempt. Each word stung like the flick of a lash on bare flesh. But she forced herself to answer—and to answer honestly.
“Yes,” she said very low. “That was it.”
He shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
“Comment is superfluous, I think.”
She made an impulsive step towards him.
For some unfathomable reason she minded—minded intensely—that this man should hold her in such poor esteem. She wanted to put herself right with him, to justify her attitude in his eyes.
“Have you ever seen me dance?” she asked abruptly.