"
Fiorsen bit his lip, and bowed.
"May I have the pleasure of giving you some tea?"
"Yes, thank you; I'm very hungry. I don't eat lunch on matinee-days; I
find it better not. Do you like my Ophelia dance?"
"It's artificial."
"Yes, it IS artificial--it's done with mirrors and wire netting, you
know. But do I give you the illusion of being mad?" Fiorsen nodded. "I'm
so glad. Shall we go? I do want my tea."
She turned round, scrutinized herself in the glass, touched her hat
with both hands, revealing, for a second, all the poised beauty of her
figure, took a little bag from the back of a chair, and said:
"I think, if you don't mind going on, it's less conspicuous. I'll meet
you at Ruffel's--they have lovely things there. Au revoir."
In a state of bewilderment, irritation, and queer meekness, Fiorsen
passed down Coventry Street, and entering the empty Ruffel's, took a
table near the window. There he sat staring before him, for the sudden
vision of Gyp sitting on that oaken chest, at the foot of her bed, had
blotted the girl clean out. The attendant coming to take his order,
gazed at his pale, furious face, and said mechanically:
"What can I get you, please?"
Looking up, Fiorsen saw Daphne Wing outside, gazing at the cakes in the
window. She came in.
"Oh, here you are! I should like iced coffee and walnut cake, and some
of those marzipan sweets--oh, and some whipped cream with my cake.
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