And--and"-- rather helplessly--"I can't help it if I don't fall in love to order." She kissed her godmother lightly.

"So that's that." A minute later Lady Arabella's butler had swung open the front door, and Magda crossed the pavement and entered her waiting car.
Outside, the fog hung like a thick pall over London--thick enough to curtain the windows of the car with a blank, grey veil and to make progress through the streets a difficult and somewhat dangerous process.
Magda snuggled into her furs and leant back against the padded cushions.
All sight of the outside world was cut off from her, except for the blurred gleam of an occasional street-lamp or the menacing shape of a motor-bus looming suddenly alongside, and she yielded herself to the train of thought provoked by her talk with Lady Arabella.
In a detached sort of way she felt sorry about Kit Raynham--principally because Lady Arabella, of whom she was exceedingly fond, seemed vexed about the matter.

It had not taken her long to discover, when as a child she had come to live with her godmother, the warm heart that concealed itself beneath the old lady's somewhat shrewish exterior.

And to Lady Arabella the advent of her god-child had been a matter for pure rejoicing.
Having no children of her own, she lavished a pent-up wealth of affection upon Magda of which few would have thought her capable, and though she was by no means niggardly in her blame of Hugh Vallincourt for his method of shelving his responsibilities, she was grateful that his withdrawal into the monastic life had been the means of throwing Magda into her care.

Five years later, when death claimed him, she found he had appointed her the child's sole guardian.
True to her intention, she had asked the opinion of Lydia Tchinova, the famous dancer, and under Madame Tchinova's guidance Magda had received such training that when she came to make her debut she leaped into fame at once.