Lobster salad, hock, and peaches restored her courage. She ate heartily.
It did not apparently matter to her whether she danced full or empty;
but she would not smoke.
"It's bad for the--" She checked herself.
When they had finished supper, Gyp shut the dogs into the back premises;
she had visions of their rending Miss Wing's draperies, or calves. Then
they went into the drawing-room, not lighting up, that they might tell
when the moonlight was strong enough outside. Though it was the last
night of August, the heat was as great as ever--a deep, unstirring
warmth; the climbing moon shot as yet but a thin shaft here and there
through the heavy foliage. They talked in low voices, unconsciously
playing up to the nature of the escapade. As the moon drew up, they
stole out across the garden to the music-room. Gyp lighted the candles.
"Can you manage?"
Miss Daphne had already shed half her garments.
"Oh, I'm so excited, Mrs. Fiorsen! I do hope I shall dance well."
Gyp stole back to the house; it being Sunday evening, the servants had
been easily disposed of. She sat down at the piano, turning her eyes
toward the garden. A blurred white shape flitted suddenly across
the darkness at the far end and became motionless, as it might be a
white-flowering bush under the trees. Miss Daphne had come out, and
was waiting for the moon. Gyp began to play.
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