“Will you come one day and see her? She has still to make her debut.”
Gyp answered:
“Thank you. I don't know. I love dancing, of course.”
“Good! I will arrange it.”
And Gyp thought: “No, no! I don't want to have anything to do with you! Why do I not speak the truth? Why didn't I say I hate dancing?”
Just then a bell sounded; people began hurrying away. The girl came up to Rosek.
“Miss Daphne Wing—Mrs. Fiorsen.”
Gyp put out her hand with a smile—this girl was certainly a picture. Miss Daphne Wing smiled, too, and said, with the intonation of those who have been carefully corrected of an accent:
“Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, how beautifully your husband plays—doesn't he?”
It was not merely the careful speech but something lacking when the perfect mouth moved—spirit, sensibility, who could say? And Gyp felt sorry, as at blight on a perfect flower. With a friendly nod, she turned away to Fiorsen, who was waiting to go up on to the platform. Was it at her or at the girl he had been looking? She smiled at him and slid away. In the corridor, Rosek, in attendance, said: