Will you come to my first night? Mother says I've got to
be awfully careful. She only let me come this evening because you were
going to be here. Would you like me to begin?"
She slid across to Rosek, and Gyp heard her say:
"Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen wants me to begin; a Chopin waltz, please. The one
that goes like this."
Rosek went to the piano, the little dancer to the centre of the room.
Gyp sat down beside Fiorsen.
Rosek began playing, his eyes fixed on the girl, and his mouth loosened
from compression in a sweetish smile. Miss Daphne Wing was standing
with her finger-tips joined at her breast--a perfect statue of ebony and
palest wax. Suddenly she flung away the black kimono. A thrill swept
Gyp from head to foot. She COULD dance--that common little girl! Every
movement of her round, sinuous body, of her bare limbs, had the ecstasy
of natural genius, controlled by the quivering balance of a really fine
training. "A dove flying!" So she was. Her face had lost its vacancy,
or rather its vacancy had become divine, having that look--not lost but
gone before--which dance demands. Yes, she was a gem, even if she had a
common soul. Tears came up in Gyp's eyes. It was so lovely--like a dove,
when it flings itself up in the wind, breasting on up, up--wings bent
back, poised. Abandonment, freedom--chastened, shaped, controlled!
When, after the dance, the girl came and sat down beside her, she
squeezed her hot little hand, but the caress was for her art, not for
this moist little person with the lips avid of sugar-plums.
Pages:
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116