"Why didn't you tell me it was done, and I needn't have got into these," she said, lifting the hem of her gauze skirt to her lips—a fascinating trick which, to use her own expression, invariably "brought down the house."
I looked at the laughing row of white teeth and thought of Dupres.
"You still want a touch or two. Just get into position for one moment."
"You'll spoil me," she warned, jumping to her place on the "throne," and shooting out an ankle that would have unhinged Diogenes.
"Nothing could spoil you," I said gallantly, and a paint tube levelled in the direction of my head was the reward of my politeness.
"You don't aim as well as you dance. How did you learn—at a training school, or where?"
"To dance? Bah! training schools can't teach the fine poetry of movement. They knock the prose into you, but—but the poetry I learnt from—O—a man who was great in his day."
"Salvador?" I ventured.
She blushed faintly.
"How did you know?"