"A young dancer, Daphne Wing--she will make a name. A dove flying! So
you admire her, Madame Gyp?"
Gyp said, smiling:
"She's very pretty--I can imagine her dancing beautifully."
"Will you come one day and see her? She has still to make her debut."
Gyp answered:
"Thank you. I don't know. I love dancing, of course."
"Good! I will arrange it."
And Gyp thought: "No, no! I don't want to have anything to do with you!
Why do I not speak the truth? Why didn't I say I hate dancing?"
Just then a bell sounded; people began hurrying away. The girl came up
to Rosek.
"Miss Daphne Wing--Mrs. Fiorsen."
Gyp put out her hand with a smile--this girl was certainly a picture.
Miss Daphne Wing smiled, too, and said, with the intonation of those who
have been carefully corrected of an accent:
"Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, how beautifully your husband plays--doesn't he?"
It was not merely the careful speech but something lacking when the
perfect mouth moved--spirit, sensibility, who could say? And Gyp felt
sorry, as at blight on a perfect flower. With a friendly nod, she turned
away to Fiorsen, who was waiting to go up on to the platform. Was it at
her or at the girl he had been looking? She smiled at him and slid away.
In the corridor, Rosek, in attendance, said:
"Why not this evening? Come with Gustav to my rooms. She shall dance to
us, and we will all have supper.
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