“Oh, mine IS good; isn't it, Mrs. Fiorsen? I mean, I HAVE worked—ever since I was thirteen, you know. I simply love it. I think YOU would dance beautifully, Mrs. Fiorsen. You've got such a perfect figure. I simply love to see you walk.”
Gyp flushed, and said:
“Do have one of these, Miss Wing—they've got whole raspberries inside.”
The little dancer put one in her mouth.
“Oh, but please don't call me Miss Wing! I wish you'd call me Daphne. Mr. Fior—everybody does.”
Conscious of her father's face, Gyp murmured:
“It's a lovely name. Won't you have another? These are apricot.”
“They're perfect. You know, my first dress is going to be all orange-blossom; Mr. Fiorsen suggested that. But I expect he told you. Perhaps you suggested it really; did you?” Gyp shook her head. “Count Rosek says the world is waiting for me—” She paused with a sugar-plum halfway to her lips, and added doubtfully: “Do you think that's true?”
Gyp answered with a soft: “I hope so.”
“He says I'm something new. It would be nice to think that. He has great taste; so has Mr. Fiorsen, hasn't he?”