"Oh, did you like it? I'm so glad. Shall I go and put on my
flame-colour, now?"
The moment she was gone, comment broke out freely. The dark and cynical
Gallant thought the girl's dancing like a certain Napierkowska whom he
had seen in Moscow, without her fire--the touch of passion would have
to be supplied. She wanted love! Love! And suddenly Gyp was back in the
concert-hall, listening to that other girl singing the song of a broken
heart.
"Thy kiss, dear love--
Like watercress gathered fresh from cool streams."
Love! in this abode--of fauns' heads, deep cushions, silver dancing
girls! Love! She had a sudden sense of deep abasement. What was she,
herself, but just a feast for a man's senses? Her home, what but a place
like this? Miss Daphne Wing was back again. Gyp looked at her husband's
face while she was dancing. His lips! How was it that she could see that
disturbance in him, and not care? If she had really loved him, to see
his lips like that would have hurt her, but she might have understood
perhaps, and forgiven. Now she neither quite understood nor quite
forgave.
And that night, when he kissed her, she murmured:
"Would you rather it were that girl--not me?"
"That girl! I could swallow her at a draft. But you, my Gyp--I want to
drink for ever!"
Was that true? IF she had loved him--how good to hear!
V
After this, Gyp was daily more and more in contact with high bohemia,
that curious composite section of society which embraces the neck of
music, poetry, and the drama.
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