“Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I thought you wouldn't mind my coming. I did so want to see you again. Count Rosek said he thought I might. It's all fixed for my coming-out. Oh, how do you do?” And with lips and eyes opening at Winton, she sat down in the chair he placed for her. Gyp, watching his expression, felt inclined to laugh. Dad, and Daphne Wing! And the poor girl so evidently anxious to make a good impression! Presently she asked:
“Have you been dancing at Count Rosek's again lately?”
“Oh, yes, haven't you—didn't you—I—” And she stopped.
The thought flashed through Gyp, 'So Gustav's been seeing her, and hasn't told me!' But she said at once:
“Ah, yes, of course; I forgot. When is the night of your coming-out?”
“Next Friday week. Fancy! The Octagon. Isn't it splendid? They've given me such a good engagement. I do so want you and Mr. Fiorsen to come, though!”
Gyp, smiling, murmured:
“Of course we will. My father loves dancing, too; don't you, Dad?”
Winton took his cigar from his mouth.
“When it's good,” he said, urbanely.