"So that is what you think, is it?" she said in a low voice of bitter
anger. "Well, I _have_ the courage of my convictions." She paused. Then,
with an effort: "Yes, I did think you weren't 'suitably impressed,' as
you put it. You are perfectly right."

He threw her a swift glance of surprise. Presumably he hadn't
anticipated such a candid acknowledgment, but even so he showed no
disposition to lay down the probe.

"You didn't think it possible that anyone could meet the Wielitzska
without regarding the event as a piece of stupendous good luck and being
appropriately overjoyed, did you?" he pursued relentlessly.

Magda pressed her lips together. Then, with an effort:

"No," she admitted.

"And so, just because I treated you as I would any other woman, and made
no pretence of fatuous delight over your presence here, you supposed I
must be ignorant of your identity? Was that it?"

Magda writhed under the cool, ironical questioning with its undercurrent
of keen contempt. Each word stung like the flick of a lash on bare
flesh. But she forced herself to answer--and to answer honestly.

"Yes," she said very low. "That was it."

He shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

"Comment is superfluous, I think."