de nor her
own warm affection for her god-daughter--to obscure her clear-sighted
vision.

Magda twisted her slim shoulders irritably when taken to task.

"I think I'm tired of being blamed for Kit Raynham's idiocy," she said,
a note of resentment in her voice. "No one seems to consider my side of
the question! I was merely nice to him in an ordinary sort of way, and
there wasn't the least need for him to have chucked up everything and
rushed off to the other side of the world like that. _I_ couldn't help
it!"

Lady Arabella made a gesture of despair.

"I don't believe you could," she acknowledged helplessly. "I'm really
beginning to have a sneaking sympathy with poor Hugh for shelving the
responsibility of having brought you into the world. But at least you
might refrain from baby-snatching!" she added wrathfully.

Magda protested.

"Marraine! You're abominable! Kit is four-and-twenty if he's a day. And
I'm barely twenty."

"That has nothing whatever to do with it," retorted Lady Arabella
incisively. "Kit is a babe in arms, while you--you're as old as Eve."
She paused. "Anyway, you've broken his heart and driven him to the ends
of the earth."

"Where he'll probably paste together the pieces and offer the repaired
article to someone else."

Lady Arabella looked up sharply. Cynicism was usually far enough away
from Magda. She was too full of the joy of life and of the genuine
delight an artist finds in his art to have place for it. Egoist she
might be, with the unthinking egotism of youth, irresponsible in her
gay acceptance of the love and admiration showered on her, but there
was nothing bitter or sour in her composition. Lady Arabella, seeking
an explanation for the unwonted, cast her mind back on the events of the
last few weeks--and smiled to herself.

"I suppose you know you've driven someone else out of England besides
Kit Raynham?" she said.

"Whom do you mean?"

Magda spoke mechanically. A faint colour crept up under her white skin,
and she avoided her godmother's keen gaze.

"That charming artist-man--Michael Quarrington."

"Has--he left England?" Magda's throat felt suddenly parched. Then
with an effort she went on: "You're surely not going to put the entire
steamship's passenger list down to me, Marraine?"

"Only those names for which I happen to know you're responsible."

"You don't know about Saint Mi--about Mr. Quarrington. It's mere
guesswork on your part."

"Most of the things we r