She appeared to reflect a moment.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t. There’s only one thing really means much to me—and that is my art. And Lady Arabella,” she added after a pause. “She’ll always mean a good deal.”
She sat down by the fire and held out her hands to its warmth. The slender fingers seemed almost transparent, glowing rosily in the firelight. Davilof turned to go.
“Good-bye, then,” he said curtly.
“Good-bye.” Magda nodded indifferently. Then, carelessly: “I shall want you to-morrow, Davilof—same time.”
He swung round.
“I will never play for you again. Did you imagine I should?”
She smiled at him—that slow, subtle smile of hers with its hint of mockery.
“You won’t be able to keep away,” she replied.
“I will never play for you again,” he repeated. “Never! I will teach myself to hate you.”