airily. "She's a gorgeous accompanist, anyway--almost as good as Davilof
himself. Which reminds me--I must go home and rehearse my solo dance in
the _Swan-Maiden_. I told Davilof I'd be ready for him at four o'clock;
and it's half-past three now. I shall never get back to Hampstead
through this ghastly fog in half an hour." She glanced towards the
window through which was visible a discouraging fog of the "pea-soup"
variety.

Lady Arabella sniffed.

"You'd better be careful for once in your life, Magda. Davilof is in
love with you."

"Pouf! What if he is?"

Magda rose, and picking up her big black hat set it on her head at
precisely the right angle, and proceeded to spear it through with a
wonderful black-and-gold hatpin of Chinese workmanship.

Lady Arabella shot a swift glance at her.

"He's just one of a crowd?" she suggested tartly.

Magda assented indifferently.

"You're wrong--quite wrong," returned her godmother crisply. "Antoine
Davilof is not one of a crowd--never will be! He's half a Pole,
remember."

Magda smiled.