He stared at her—at the drooping lines of her figure, the quivering lips, at the half-stunned expression of the dark eyes. And suddenly realisation of the enormity of all he had said seemed to come to him. But he did not appear to be at all overwhelmed by it.
“I’m afraid I’ve transgressed beyond forgiveness now,” he said curtly. “But—you rather asked for it, you know, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I think I did—ask for it.” Suddenly she threw up her head and faced him. “If—if it’s any satisfaction to you to know it, I think you’ve paid off at least some of your friend’s score.” She looked at him with a curious, almost piteous surprise. “You—you’ve hurt me!” she whispered passionately. She turned to the door. “I’ll go now.”
“No!” He stopped her with a hand on her arm, and she obeyed his touch submissively. For a moment he stood looking down at her with an oddly conflicting expression on his face. It was as though he were arguing out some point with himself. All at once he seemed to come to a decision.
“Look, you can’t go till the fog clears a bit. Suppose we call a truce? Sit down here”—pulling forward a big easy-chair—“and for the rest of your visit let’s behave as though we didn’t heartily disapprove of one another.”
Magda sank into the chair with that supple grace of limb which made it sheer delight to watch her movements.
“I never said I disapproved of you,” she remarked.
He seated himself opposite her, on the other side of the hearth, and regarded her quizzically.
“No. But you do, all the same. Naturally, you would after my candour! And I’d rather you did, too,” he added abruptly. “But at least you’ve no more devoted admirer of your art. You know, dancing appeals to me in a way that nothing else does. My job’s painting—”
“House-painting?” interpolated Magda with a smile. Her spirits were rising a little under his new kindliness of manner.