Winton, who, by careful experiment, had found that from half-past three
to six there was little or no chance of stumbling across his son-in-law,
came in nearly every day for tea and a quiet cigar on the lawn. He
was sitting there with Gyp one afternoon, when Betty, who usurped the
functions of parlour-maid whenever the whim moved her, brought out a
card on which were printed the words, "Miss Daphne Wing."
"Bring her out, please, Betty dear, and some fresh tea, and buttered
toast--plenty of buttered toast; yes, and the chocolates, and any other
sweets there are, Betty darling."
Betty, with that expression which always came over her when she was
called "darling," withdrew across the grass, and Gyp said to her father:
"It's the little dancer I told you of, Dad. Now you'll see something
perfect. Only, she'll be dressed. It's a pity."
She was. The occasion had evidently exercised her spirit. 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. I did so want
to see you again. Count Rosek said he thought I might.
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