Do
you mind?" And, sitting down, she fixed her eyes on his face and asked:
"Where have you been abroad?"
"Stockholm, Budapest, Moscow, other places."
"How perfect! Do you think I should make a success in Budapest or
Moscow?"
"You might; you are English enough."
"Oh! Do you think I'm very English?"
"Utterly. Your kind of--" But even he was not quite capable of finishing
that sentence--"your kind of vulgarity could not be produced anywhere
else." Daphne Wing finished it for him:
"My kind of beauty?"
Fiorsen grinned and nodded.
"Oh, I think that's the nicest thing you ever said to me! Only, of
course, I should like to think I'm more of the Greek type--pagan, you
know."
She fell silent, casting her eyes down. Her profile at that moment,
against the light, was very pure and soft in line. And he said:
"I suppose you hate me, little Daphne? You ought to hate me."
Daphne Wing looked up; her round, blue-grey eyes passed over him much as
they had been passing over the marzipan.
"No; I don't hate you--now. Of course, if I had any love left for you, I
should. Oh, isn't that Irish? But one can think anybody a rotter without
hating them, can't one?"
Fiorsen bit his lips.
"So you think me a 'rotter'?"
Daphne Wing's eyes grew rounder.
"But aren't you? You couldn't be anything else--could you?--with the
sort of things you did.
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