“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.” Pink came up in Daphne Wing's cheeks. And, encouraged by that flush, he went on warmly: “If you loved me now, I should not tire of you. Oh, you can believe me! I—”
She shook her head.
“We won't talk about love, will we? Did you have a big triumph in Moscow and St. Petersburg? It must be wonderful to have really great triumphs!”