Lady Arabella rose suddenly and came across to where Magda stood by the
fire, one narrow foot extended to the cheerful warmth.

"Never mind what I mean," she said, and her voice sounded a little
uncertain. "Only, if it comes your way, don't miss the best thing this
queer old world of ours has to offer. If it brings you nothing else,
love at least leaves you memories. Even that's something."

Magda glanced at her curiously. Somehow she had never imagined that
behind the worldly-wise old woman's sharp speeches and grim, ironic
humour there lay the half-buried memory of some far-distant romance. Yet
now in the uneven tones of her voice she recognised the throb of an old
wound.

"And meanwhile"--Lady Arabella suddenly resumed in her usual curt
manner--"meanwhile you might play fair with one or two of those boys you
have trailing around--Kit Raynham for instance."

"I don't understand," began Magda.

"You understand perfectly. A man of the world's fair game. He can
look after himself--and probably sizes you up for what you are--a
phenomenally successful dancer, who regards her little court of admirers
as one of the commonplaces of existence--like her morning cup of tea.
But these boys--they look upon you as a woman, even a possible wife. And
then they proceed to fall in love with you!"

Magda's foot tapped impatiently on the floor.

"What's this all leading up to?"