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In warm ivory, shrouded by leaf-green chiffon, with a girdle of tiny artificial leaves, and a lightly covered head encircled by other green leaves, she was somewhat like a nymph peering from a bower. If rather too arresting, it was charming, and, after all, no frock could quite disguise the beauty of her figure. She was evidently nervous. "Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I thought you wouldn't mind my coming.
Aunt Rosamund's efforts to take her into society were fruitless all the effervescence was out of that, and, though her father came, he never stayed long for fear of meeting Fiorsen. In this condition of affairs, she turned more and more to her own music, and one morning, after she had come across some compositions of her girlhood, she made a resolution.
Daphne Wing, still motionless in the centre of her little crowded dressing-room said, in a matter-of-fact voice: "You are polite, aren't you? It's funny; I can't tell whether I'm glad to see you. I had a bad time, you know; and Mrs. Fiorsen was an angel. Why do you come to see me now?" Exactly! Why had he come?
Monsieur Harmost's voice behind her said: "Before you go, monsieur, give me some explanation of this imbecility!" Fiorsen spun round, shook his fist, and went out muttering. They heard the front door slam. Gyp turned abruptly to the window, and there, in her agitation, she noticed little outside things as one does in moments of bewildered anger. Even into that back yard, summer had crept.
It IS so nice to talk to you, Mrs. Fiorsen, because you're young enough to know what I feel; and I'm sure you'd never be shocked at anything. You see, about men: Ought one to marry, or ought one to take a lover? They say you can't be a perfect artist till you've felt passion. But, then, if you marry, that means mutton over again, and perhaps babies, and perhaps the wrong man after all. Ugh!
Fiorsen might not have existed, for any mention made of him. But Winton knew well that she was moping, and cherishing some feeling against himself. And this he could not bear. So, one evening, after dinner, he said quietly: "Tell me frankly, Gyp; do you care for that chap?" She answered as quietly: "In a way yes." "Is that enough?" "I don't know, Dad."
A cab had stopped below, but not till Betty came rushing in did she look up. When, trembling all over, she entered the dining-room, Fiorsen was standing by the sideboard, holding the child. He came straight up and put her into Gyp's arms. "Take her," he said, "and do what you will. Be happy." Hugging her baby, close to the door as she could get, Gyp answered nothing.
I think YOU would dance beautifully, Mrs. Fiorsen. You've got such a perfect figure. I simply love to see you walk." Gyp flushed, and said: "Do have one of these, Miss Wing they've got whole raspberries inside." The little dancer put one in her mouth. "Oh, but please don't call me Miss Wing! I wish you'd call me Daphne. Mr. Fior everybody does."
From the moment she turned to the window at Monsieur Harmost's, she had determined to go to her father's. She would not go back to Fiorsen; and the one thought that filled her mind was how to get Betty and her baby. Nearly four! Dad was almost sure to be at his club. And leaning out, she said: "No; Hyde Park Corner, please."
It might irritate Fiorsen and affect his playing to see her with "that stiff English creature." She wanted, too, to feel again the sensations of Wiesbaden. There would be a kind of sacred pleasure in knowing that she had helped to perfect sounds which touched the hearts and senses of so many listeners. She had looked forward to this concert so long.
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