“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.