"And I'm half a Russian. It must be a case of deep calling to deep," she
suggested mockingly.

Lady Arabella's shining needles clicked as they came to an abrupt stop.

"Does that mean you're in love with him?" she asked.

Magda stared.

"Good gracious, no! I'm never in love. You know that."

"That doesn't prevent my hoping you may develop--some day--into a normal
God-fearing woman," retorted the other.

"And learn to thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love?" Magda
laughed lightly. "I shan't. At least, I hope not. Judging from my
friends and acquaintances, the condition of being in love is a most
unpleasant one--reduces a woman to a humiliating sense of her own
unworthiness and keeps her in a see-saw state of emotional uncertainty.
No, thank you! No man is worth it!"

Lady Arabella looked away. Her hard, bright old eyes held a sudden
wistfulness foreign to them.

"My dear--one man is. One man in every woman's life is worth it. Only we
don't always find it out in time."

"Why, Marraine--you don't mean--you weren't ever----"