CHAPTER I

THE FLOWERING

"You're very trying, Magda. Everyone is talking about you, and I'm tired
of trying to explain you to people."

Lady Arabella paused in her knitting and spoke petulantly, but a secret
gleam of admiration in her sharp old eyes as they rested upon her
god-daughter belied the irritation of her tones.

Magda leaned back negligently against the big black velvet cushions in
her chair and lit a cigarette.

"I _want_ everyone to talk about me," she returned composedly. Her voice
was oddly attractive--low-pitched and with a faint blur of huskiness
about it that caught the ear with a distinctive charm. "It increases
the box-office receipts. And there's no reason in the world for you to
'explain' me to people."

Her godmother regarded her with increasing irritation, yet at the same
time acutely conscious of the arresting quality of the young, vividly
alive face that gleamed at her from its black-velvet background.

Ten years had only served to emphasise the unusual characteristics
of the child Magda. Her skin was wonderful, of a smooth, creamy-white
texture which gave to the sharply angled face something of the pale,
exotic perfection of a stephanotis bloom. Her eyes were long, the colour
of black pansies--black with a suggestion of purple in their depths.