But perhaps it isn't them. Besides,
I'm not afraid now; it makes a wonderful difference being on one's own."
She disappeared. Fiorsen could hear a woman's acid voice, a man's,
rather hoarse and greasy, the sound of a smacking kiss. And, with a
vicious shrug, he stood at bay. Trapped! The little devil! The little
dovelike devil! He saw a lady in a silk dress, green shot with beetroot
colour, a short, thick gentleman with a round, greyish beard, in a grey
suit, having a small dahlia in his buttonhole, and, behind them, Daphne
Wing, flushed, and very round-eyed. He took a step, intending to escape
without more ado. The gentleman said:
"Introduce us, Daisy. I didn't quite catch--Mr. Dawson? How do you do,
sir? One of my daughter's impresarios, I think. 'Appy to meet you, I'm
sure."
Fiorsen took a long breath, and bowed. Mr. Wagge's small piggy eyes had
fixed themselves on the little trees.
"She's got a nice little place here for her work--quiet and
unconventional. I hope you think well of her talent, sir? You might go
further and fare worse, I believe."
Again Fiorsen bowed.
"You may be proud of her," he said; "she is the rising star."
Mr. Wagge cleared his throat.
"Ow," he said; "ye'es! From a little thing, we thought she had stuff
in her. I've come to take a great interest in her work. It's not in my
line, but I think she's a sticker; I like to see perseverance.
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