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. 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: