I don't mean to let love stand in its way; I want to make
it help, you know. Count Rosek says my dancing lacks passion. I wish
you'd tell me if you think it does. I should believe YOU."
Gyp shook her head.
"I'm not a judge."
Daphne Wing looked up reproachfully.
"Oh, I'm sure you are! If I were a man, I should be passionately in love
with you. I've got a new dance where I'm supposed to be a nymph pursued
by a faun; it's so difficult to feel like a nymph when you know it's
only the ballet-master. Do you think I ought to put passion into that?
You see, I'm supposed to be flying all the time; but it would be much
more subtle, wouldn't it, if I could give the impression that I wanted
to be caught. Don't you think so?"
Gyp said suddenly:
"Yes, I think it WOULD do you good to be in love."
Miss Daphne's mouth fell a little open; her eyes grew round. She said:
"You frightened me when you said that. You looked so
different--so--intense."
A flame indeed had leaped up in Gyp. This fluffy, flabby talk of love
set her instincts in revolt. She did not want to love; she had failed
to fall in love. But, whatever love was like, it did not bear talking
about. How was it that this little suburban girl, when she once got on
her toes, could twirl one's emotions as she did?
"D'you know what I should simply revel in?" Daphne Wing went on: "To
dance to you here in the garden some night.
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