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.