Fiorsen?"
Fiorsen turned abruptly.
"There is none."
"Oh, has she divorced you?"
"No. Stop talking of her; stop talking, I say!"
Daphne Wing, still motionless in the centre of her little crowded
dressing-room said, in a matter-of-fact voice:
"You are polite, aren't you? It's funny; I can't tell whether I'm glad
to see you. I had a bad time, you know; and Mrs. Fiorsen was an angel.
Why do you come to see me now?"
Exactly! Why had he come? The thought flashed through him: 'She'll help
me to forget.' And he said:
"I was a great brute to you, Daphne. I came to make up, if I can."
"Oh, no; you can't make up--thank you!" A shudder ran through her, and
she began drawing on her gloves. "You taught me a lot, you know. I ought
to be quite grateful. Oh, you've grown a little beard! D'you think that
improves you? It makes you look rather like Mephistopheles, I think."
Fiorsen stared fixedly at that perfectly shaped face, where a faint,
underdone pink mingled with the fairness of the skin. Was she mocking
him? Impossible! She looked too matter of fact.
"Where do you live now?" he said.
"I'm on my own, in a studio. You can come and see it, if you like."
"With pleasure."
"Only, you'd better understand. I've had enough of love."
Fiorsen grinned.
"Even for another?" he said.
Daphne Wing answered calmly:
"I wish you would treat me like a lady.
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