" She
clasped her hands: "Do you remember when I danced to you before the
fire?"
Fiorsen remembered only too well. The pink cigarette trembled in his
fingers, and he said rather hoarsely:
"Dance to me now, Daphne!"
She shook her head.
"I don't trust you a yard. Nobody would--would they?"
Fiorsen started up.
"Then why did you ask me here? What are you playing at, you little--" At
sight of her round, unmoving eyes, he stopped. She said calmly:
"I thought you'd like to see that I'd mastered my fate--that's all. But,
of course, if you don't, you needn't stop."
Fiorsen sank back on the divan. A conviction that everything she said
was literal had begun slowly to sink into him. And taking a long pull at
that pink cigarette he puffed the smoke out with a laugh.
"What are you laughing at?"
"I was thinking, little Daphne, that you are as great an egoist as I."
"I want to be. It's the only thing, isn't it?"
Fiorsen laughed again.
"You needn't worry. You always were."
She had seated herself on an Indian stool covered with a bit of Turkish
embroidery, and, joining her hands on her lap, answered gravely:
"No; I think I wasn't, while I loved you. But it didn't pay, did it?"
Fiorsen stared at her.
"It has made a woman of you, Daphne. Your face is different. Your
mouth is prettier for my kisses--or the want of them. All over, you are
prettier.
Pages:
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328