“Come along, Davilof,” she said. “I suppose you want to hear your own music—even if Magda’s dancing no longer interests you?”
Davilof gave her his arm down the steps.
“What do you mean, miladi?” he asked. “There is no more beautiful dancing in the world.”
“Then why have you jacked up your job of accompanist? Shoes beginning to pinch a little, eh?”—shrewdly.
“You mean I grow too big for my boots? No, madame. If I were the greatest musician in Europe, instead of being merely Antoine Davilof, it could only be a source of pride to be asked to accompany the Wielitzska.”
Lady Arabella paused on the pavement, her foot on the step of the limousine.
“Then how is it that Mrs. Grey accompanies her now? She was playing for her at the Duchess of Lichbrooke’s the other evening.
“Magda didn’t tell you, then?”
“No, she didn’t; or I’d not be wasting my breath in asking you. I asked her, and she said you had taken to playing wrong notes.”
A faint smile curved the lips above the small golden beard.