Kitabı oku: «Beyond», sayfa 15

And a vision of his loved one talked about, besmirched, bandied from mouth to mouth, or else – for her what there had been for him, a hole-and-corner life, an underground existence of stealthy meetings kept dark, above all from her own little daughter. Ah, not that! And yet – was not even that better than the other, which revolted to the soul his fastidious pride in her, roused in advance his fury against tongues that would wag, and eyes that would wink or be uplifted in righteousness? Summerhay’s world was more or less his world; scandal, which – like all parasitic growths – flourishes in enclosed spaces, would have every chance. And, at once, his brain began to search, steely and quick, for some way out; and the expression as when a fox broke covert, came on his face.

“Nobody knows, Gyp?”

“No; nobody.”

That was something! With an irritation that rose from his very soul, he muttered:

“I can’t stand it that you should suffer, and that fellow Fiorsen go scot-free. Can you give up seeing Summerhay while we get you a divorce? We might do it, if no one knows. I think you owe it to me, Gyp.”

Gyp got up and stood by the window a long time without answering. Winton watched her face. At last she said:

“I couldn’t. We might stop seeing each other; it isn’t that. It’s what I should feel. I shouldn’t respect myself after; I should feel so mean. Oh, Dad, don’t you see? He really loved me in his way. And to pretend! To make out a case for myself, tell about Daphne Wing, about his drinking, and baby; pretend that I wanted him to love me, when I got to hate it and didn’t care really whether he was faithful or not – and knowing all the while that I’ve been everything to someone else! I couldn’t. I’d much rather let him know, and ask him to divorce me.”

Winton replied:

“And suppose he won’t?”

“Then my mind would be clear, anyway; and we would take what we could.”

“And little Gyp?”

Staring before her as if trying to see into the future, she said slowly:

“Some day, she’ll understand, as I do. Or perhaps it will be all over before she knows. Does happiness ever last?”

And, going up to him, she bent over, kissed his forehead, and went out. The warmth from her lips, and the scent of her remained with Winton like a sensation wafted from the past.

Was there then nothing to be done – nothing? Men of his stamp do not, as a general thing, see very deep even into those who are nearest to them; but to-night he saw his daughter’s nature more fully perhaps than ever before. No use to importune her to act against her instincts – not a bit of use! And yet – how to sit and watch it all – watch his own passion with its ecstasy and its heart-burnings re-enacted with her – perhaps for many years? And the old vulgar saying passed through his mind: “What’s bred in the bone will come out in the meat.” Now she had given, she would give with both hands – beyond measure – beyond! – as he himself, as her mother had given! Ah, well, she was better off than his own loved one had been. One must not go ahead of trouble, or cry over spilled milk!

VIII

Gyp had a wakeful night. The question she herself had raised, of telling Fiorsen, kept her thoughts in turmoil. Was he likely to divorce her if she did? His contempt for what he called ‘these bourgeois morals,’ his instability, the very unpleasantness, and offence to his vanity – all this would prevent him. No; he would not divorce her, she was sure, unless by any chance he wanted legal freedom, and that was quite unlikely. What then would be gained? Ease for her conscience? But had she any right to ease her conscience if it brought harm to her lover? And was it not ridiculous to think of conscience in regard to one who, within a year of marriage, had taken to himself a mistress, and not even spared the home paid for and supported by his wife? No; if she told Fiorsen, it would only be to salve her pride, wounded by doing what she did not avow. Besides, where was he? At the other end of the world for all she knew.

She came down to breakfast, dark under the eyes and no whit advanced toward decision. Neither of them mentioned their last night’s talk, and Gyp went back to her room to busy herself with dress, after those weeks away. It was past noon when, at a muffled knock, she found Markey outside her door.

“Mr. Fiorsen, m’m.”

Gyp beckoned him in, and closed the door.

“In the hall, m’m – slipped in when I answered the bell; short of shoving, I couldn’t keep him out.”

Gyp stood full half a minute before she said:

“Is my father in?”

“No, m’m; the major’s gone to the fencin’-club.”

“What did you say?”

“Said I would see. So far as I was aware, nobody was in. Shall I have a try to shift him, m’m?”

With a faint smile Gyp shook her head.

“Say no one can see him.”

Markey’s woodcock eyes, under their thin, dark, twisting brows, fastened on her dolefully; he opened the door to go. Fiorsen was standing there, and, with a quick movement, came in. She saw Markey raise his arms as if to catch him round the waist, and said quietly:

“Markey – wait outside, please.”

When the door was shut, she retreated against her dressing-table and stood gazing at her husband, while her heart throbbed as if it would leap through its coverings.

He had grown a short beard, his cheeks seemed a little fatter, and his eyes surely more green; otherwise, he looked much as she remembered him. And the first thought that passed through her was: ‘Why did I ever pity him? He’ll never fret or drink himself to death – he’s got enough vitality for twenty men.’

His face, which had worn a fixed, nervous smile, grew suddenly grave as her own, and his eyes roved round the room in the old half-fierce, half-furtive way.

“Well, Gyp,” he said, and his voice shook a little: “At last! Won’t you kiss me?”

The question seemed to Gyp idiotic; and suddenly she felt quite cool.

“If you want to speak to my father, you must come later; he’s out.”

Fiorsen gave one of his fierce shrugs.

“Is it likely? Look, Gyp! I returned from Russia yesterday. I was a great success, made a lot of money out there. Come back to me! I will be good – I swear it! Now I have seen you again, I can’t be without you. Ah, Gyp, come back to me! And see how good I will be. I will take you abroad, you and the bambina. We will go to Rome – anywhere you like – live how you like. Only come back to me!”

Gyp answered stonily:

“You are talking nonsense.”

“Gyp, I swear to you I have not seen a woman – not one fit to put beside you. Oh, Gyp, be good to me once more. This time I will not fail. Try me! Try me, my Gyp!”

Only at this moment of his pleading, whose tragic tones seemed to her both false and childish, did Gyp realize the strength of the new feeling in her heart. And the more that feeling throbbed within her, the harder her face and her voice grew. She said:

“If that is all you came to say – please go. I will never come back to you. Once for all, understand, PLEASE.”

The silence in which he received her words, and his expression, impressed her far more than his appeal; with one of his stealthy movements he came quite close, and, putting his face forward till it almost touched her, said:

“You are my wife. I want you back. I must have you back. If you do not come, I will kill either you or myself.”

And suddenly she felt his arms knotted behind her back, crushing her to him. She stilled a scream; then, very swiftly, took a resolve, and, rigid in his arms, said:

“Let go; you hurt me. Sit down quietly. I will tell you something.”

The tone of her voice made him loosen his grasp and crane back to see her face. Gyp detached his arms from her completely, sat down on an old oak chest, and motioned him to the window-seat. Her heart thumped pitifully; cold waves of almost physical sickness passed through and through her. She had smelt brandy in his breath when he was close to her. It was like being in the cage of a wild beast; it was like being with a madman! The remembrance of him with his fingers stretched out like claws above her baby was so vivid at that moment that she could scarcely see him as he was, sitting there quietly, waiting for what she was going to say. And fixing her eyes on him, she said softly:

“You say you love me, Gustav. I tried to love you, too, but I never could – never from the first. I tried very hard. Surely you care what a woman feels, even if she happens to be your wife.”

She could see his face quiver; and she went on:

“When I found I couldn’t love you, I felt I had no right over you. I didn’t stand on my rights. Did I?”

Again his face quivered, and again she hurried on:

“But you wouldn’t expect me to go all through my life without ever feeling love – you who’ve felt it so many times?” Then, clasping her hands tight, with a sort of wonder at herself, she murmured: “I AM in love. I’ve given myself.”

He made a queer, whining sound, covering his face. And the beggar’s tag: “‘Ave a feelin’ ‘eart, gentleman – ‘ave a feelin’ ‘eart!” passed idiotically through Gyp’s mind. Would he get up and strangle her? Should she dash to the door – escape? For a long, miserable moment, she watched him swaying on the window-seat, with his face covered. Then, without looking at her, he crammed a clenched hand up against his mouth, and rushed out.

Through the open door, Gyp had a glimpse of Markey’s motionless figure, coming to life as Fiorsen passed. She drew a long breath, locked the door, and lay down on her bed. Her heart beat dreadfully. For a moment, something had checked his jealous rage. But if on this shock he began to drink, what might not happen? He had said something wild. And she shuddered. But what right had he to feel jealousy and rage against her? What right? She got up and went to the glass, trembling, mechanically tidying her hair. Miraculous that she had come through unscathed!

Her thoughts flew to Summerhay. They were to meet at three o’clock by the seat in St. James’s Park. But all was different, now; difficult and dangerous! She must wait, take counsel with her father. And yet if she did not keep that tryst, how anxious he would be – thinking that all sorts of things had happened to her; thinking perhaps – oh, foolish! – that she had forgotten, or even repented of her love. What would she herself think, if he were to fail her at their first tryst after those days of bliss? Certainly that he had changed his mind, seen she was not worth it, seen that a woman who could give herself so soon, so easily, was one to whom he could not sacrifice his life.

In this cruel uncertainty, she spent the next two hours, till it was nearly three. If she did not go out, he would come on to Bury Street, and that would be still more dangerous. She put on her hat and walked swiftly towards St. James’s Palace. Once sure that she was not being followed, her courage rose, and she passed rapidly down toward the water. She was ten minutes late, and seeing him there, walking up and down, turning his head every few seconds so as not to lose sight of the bench, she felt almost lightheaded from joy. When they had greeted with that pathetic casualness of lovers which deceives so few, they walked on together past Buckingham Palace, up into the Green Park, beneath the trees. During this progress, she told him about her father; but only when they were seated in that comparative refuge, and his hand was holding hers under cover of the sunshade that lay across her knee, did she speak of Fiorsen.

He tightened his grasp of her hand; then, suddenly dropping it, said:

“Did he touch you, Gyp?”

Gyp heard that question with a shock. Touch her! Yes! But what did it matter?

He made a little shuddering sound; and, wondering, mournful, she looked at him. His hands and teeth were clenched. She said softly:

“Bryan! Don’t! I wouldn’t let him kiss me.”

He seemed to have to force his eyes to look at her.

“It’s all right,” he said, and, staring before him, bit his nails.

Gyp sat motionless, cut to the heart. She was soiled, and spoiled for him! Of course! And yet a sense of injustice burned in her. Her heart had never been touched; it was his utterly. But that was not enough for a man – he wanted an untouched body, too. That she could not give; he should have thought of that sooner, instead of only now. And, miserably, she, too, stared before her, and her face hardened.

A little boy came and stood still in front of them, regarding her with round, unmoving eyes. She was conscious of a slice of bread and jam in his hand, and that his mouth and cheeks were smeared with red. A woman called out: “Jacky! Come on, now!” and he was hauled away, still looking back, and holding out his bread and jam as though offering her a bite. She felt Summerhay’s arm slipping round her.

“It’s over, darling. Never again – I promise you!”

Ah, he might promise – might even keep that promise. But he would suffer, always suffer, thinking of that other. And she said:

“You can only have me as I am, Bryan. I can’t make myself new for you; I wish I could – oh, I wish I could!”

“I ought to have cut my tongue out first! Don’t think of it! Come home to me and have tea – there’s no one there. Ah, do, Gyp – come!”

He took her hands and pulled her up. And all else left Gyp but the joy of being close to him, going to happiness.

IX

Fiorsen, passing Markey like a blind man, made his way out into the street, but had not gone a hundred yards before he was hurrying back. He had left his hat. The servant, still standing there, handed him that wide-brimmed object and closed the door in his face. Once more he moved away, going towards Piccadilly. If it had not been for the expression on Gyp’s face, what might he not have done? And, mixed with sickening jealousy, he felt a sort of relief, as if he had been saved from something horrible. So she had never loved him! Never at all? Impossible! Impossible that a woman on whom he had lavished such passion should never have felt passion for him – never any! Innumerable images of her passed before him – surrendering, always surrendering. It could not all have been pretence! He was not a common man – she herself had said so; he had charm – or, other women thought so! She had lied; she must have lied, to excuse herself!

He went into a cafe and asked for a fine champagne. They brought him a carafe, with the measures marked. He sat there a long time. When he rose, he had drunk nine, and he felt better, with a kind of ferocity that was pleasant in his veins and a kind of nobility that was pleasant in his soul. Let her love, and be happy with her lover! But let him get his fingers on that fellow’s throat! Let her be happy, if she could keep her lover from him! And suddenly, he stopped in his tracks, for there on a sandwich-board just in front of him were the words: “Daphne Wing. Pantheon. Daphne Wing. Plastic Danseuse. Poetry of Motion. To-day at three o’clock. Pantheon. Daphne Wing.”

Ah, SHE had loved him – little Daphne! It was past three. Going in, he took his place in the stalls, close to the stage, and stared before him, with a sort of bitter amusement. This was irony indeed! Ah – and here she came! A Pierrette – in short, diaphanous muslin, her face whitened to match it; a Pierrette who stood slowly spinning on her toes, with arms raised and hands joined in an arch above her glistening hair.

Idiotic pose! Idiotic! But there was the old expression on her face, limpid, dovelike. And that something of the divine about her dancing smote Fiorsen through all the sheer imbecility of her posturings. Across and across she flitted, pirouetting, caught up at intervals by a Pierrot in black tights with a face as whitened as her own, held upside down, or right end up with one knee bent sideways, and the toe of a foot pressed against the ankle of the other, and arms arched above her. Then, with Pierrot’s hands grasping her waist, she would stand upon one toe and slowly twiddle, lifting her other leg toward the roof, while the trembling of her form manifested cunningly to all how hard it was; then, off the toe, she capered out to the wings, and capered back, wearing on her face that divine, lost, dovelike look, while her perfect legs gleamed white up to the very thigh-joint. Yes; on the stage she was adorable! And raising his hands high, Fiorsen clapped and called out: “Brava!” He marked the sudden roundness of her eyes, a tiny start – no more. She had seen him. ‘Ah! Some don’t forget me!’ he thought.

And now she came on for her second dance, assisted this time only by her own image reflected in a little weedy pool about the middle of the stage. From the programme Fiorsen read, “Ophelia’s last dance,” and again he grinned. In a clinging sea-green gown, cut here and there to show her inevitable legs, with marguerites and corn-flowers in her unbound hair, she circled her own reflection, languid, pale, desolate; then slowly gaining the abandon needful to a full display, danced with frenzy till, in a gleam of limelight, she sank into the apparent water and floated among paper water-lilies on her back. Lovely she looked there, with her eyes still open, her lips parted, her hair trailing behind. And again Fiorsen raised his hands high to clap, and again called out: ‘Brava!’ But the curtain fell, and Ophelia did not reappear. Was it the sight of him, or was she preserving the illusion that she was drowned? That “arty” touch would be just like her.

Averting his eyes from two comedians in calico, beating each other about the body, he rose with an audible “Pish!” and made his way out. He stopped in the street to scribble on his card, “Will you see me? – G. F.” and took it round to the stage-door. The answer came back:

“Miss Wing will see you m a minute, sir.”

And leaning against the distempered wall of the draughty corridor, a queer smile on his face, Fiorsen wondered why the devil he was there, and what the devil she would say.

When he was admitted, she was standing with her hat on, while her “dresser” buttoned her patent-leather shoes. Holding out her hand above the woman’s back, she said:

“Oh, Mr. Fiorsen, how do you do?”

Fiorsen took the little moist hand; and his eyes passed over her, avoiding a direct meeting with her eyes. He received an impression of something harder, more self-possessed, than he remembered. Her face was the same, yet not the same; only her perfect, supple little body was as it had been. The dresser rose, murmured: “Good-afternoon, miss,” and went.

Daphne Wing smiled faintly.

“I haven’t seen you for a long time, have I?”

“No; I’ve been abroad. You dance as beautifully as ever.”

“Oh, yes; it hasn’t hurt my dancing.”

With an effort, he looked her in the face. Was this really the same girl who had clung to him, cloyed him with her kisses, her tears, her appeals for love – just a little love? Ah, but she was more desirable, much more desirable than he had remembered! And he said:

“Give me a kiss, little Daphne!”

Daphne Wing did not stir; her white teeth rested on her lower lip; she said:

“Oh, no, thank you! How is Mrs. Fiorsen?”

Fiorsen turned abruptly.

“There is none.”

“Oh, has she divorced you?”

“No. Stop talking of her; stop talking, I say!”

Daphne Wing, still motionless in the centre of her little crowded dressing-room said, in a matter-of-fact voice:

“You are polite, aren’t you? It’s funny; I can’t tell whether I’m glad to see you. I had a bad time, you know; and Mrs. Fiorsen was an angel. Why do you come to see me now?”

Exactly! Why had he come? The thought flashed through him: ‘She’ll help me to forget.’ And he said:

“I was a great brute to you, Daphne. I came to make up, if I can.”

“Oh, no; you can’t make up – thank you!” A shudder ran through her, and she began drawing on her gloves. “You taught me a lot, you know. I ought to be quite grateful. Oh, you’ve grown a little beard! D’you think that improves you? It makes you look rather like Mephistopheles, I think.”

Fiorsen stared fixedly at that perfectly shaped face, where a faint, underdone pink mingled with the fairness of the skin. Was she mocking him? Impossible! She looked too matter of fact.

“Where do you live now?” he said.

“I’m on my own, in a studio. You can come and see it, if you like.”

“With pleasure.”

“Only, you’d better understand. I’ve had enough of love.”

Fiorsen grinned.

“Even for another?” he said.

Daphne Wing answered calmly:

“I wish you would treat me like a lady.”

Fiorsen bit his lip, and bowed.

“May I have the pleasure of giving you some tea?”

“Yes, thank you; I’m very hungry. I don’t eat lunch on matinee-days; I find it better not. Do you like my Ophelia dance?”

“It’s artificial.”

“Yes, it IS artificial – it’s done with mirrors and wire netting, you know. But do I give you the illusion of being mad?” Fiorsen nodded. “I’m so glad. Shall we go? I do want my tea.”

She turned round, scrutinized herself in the glass, touched her hat with both hands, revealing, for a second, all the poised beauty of her figure, took a little bag from the back of a chair, and said:

“I think, if you don’t mind going on, it’s less conspicuous. I’ll meet you at Ruffel’s – they have lovely things there. Au revoir.”

In a state of bewilderment, irritation, and queer meekness, Fiorsen passed down Coventry Street, and entering the empty Ruffel’s, took a table near the window. There he sat staring before him, for the sudden vision of Gyp sitting on that oaken chest, at the foot of her bed, had blotted the girl clean out. The attendant coming to take his order, gazed at his pale, furious face, and said mechanically:

“What can I get you, please?”

Looking up, Fiorsen saw Daphne Wing outside, gazing at the cakes in the window. She came in.

“Oh, here you are! I should like iced coffee and walnut cake, and some of those marzipan sweets – oh, and some whipped cream with my cake. Do you mind?” And, sitting down, she fixed her eyes on his face and asked:

“Where have you been abroad?”

“Stockholm, Budapest, Moscow, other places.”

“How perfect! Do you think I should make a success in Budapest or Moscow?”

“You might; you are English enough.”

“Oh! Do you think I’m very English?”

“Utterly. Your kind of – ” But even he was not quite capable of finishing that sentence – “your kind of vulgarity could not be produced anywhere else.” Daphne Wing finished it for him:

“My kind of beauty?”

Fiorsen grinned and nodded.

“Oh, I think that’s the nicest thing you ever said to me! Only, of course, I should like to think I’m more of the Greek type – pagan, you know.”

She fell silent, casting her eyes down. Her profile at that moment, against the light, was very pure and soft in line. And he said:

“I suppose you hate me, little Daphne? You ought to hate me.”

Daphne Wing looked up; her round, blue-grey eyes passed over him much as they had been passing over the marzipan.

“No; I don’t hate you – now. Of course, if I had any love left for you, I should. Oh, isn’t that Irish? But one can think anybody a rotter without hating them, can’t one?”

Fiorsen bit his lips.

“So you think me a ‘rotter’?”

Daphne Wing’s eyes grew rounder.

“But aren’t you? You couldn’t be anything else – could you? – with the sort of things you did.”

“And yet you don’t mind having tea with me?”

Daphne Wing, who had begun to eat and drink, said with her mouth full:

“You see, I’m independent now, and I know life. That makes you harmless.”

Fiorsen stretched out his hand and seized hers just where her little warm pulse was beating very steadily. She looked at it, changed her fork over, and went on eating with the other hand. Fiorsen drew his hand away as if he had been stung.

“Ah, you HAVE changed – that is certain!”

“Yes; you wouldn’t expect anything else, would you? You see, one doesn’t go through that for nothing. I think I was a dreadful little fool – ” She stopped, with her spoon on its way to her mouth – “and yet – ”

“I love you still, little Daphne.”

She slowly turned her head toward him, and a faint sigh escaped her.

“Once I would have given a lot to hear that.”

And turning her head away again, she picked a large walnut out of her cake and put it in her mouth.

“Are you coming to see my studio? I’ve got it rather nice and new. I’m making twenty-five a week; my next engagement, I’m going to get thirty. I should like Mrs. Fiorsen to know – Oh, I forgot; you don’t like me to speak of her! Why not? I wish you’d tell me!” Gazing, as the attendant had, at his furious face, she went on: “I don’t know how it is, but I’m not a bit afraid of you now. I used to be. Oh, how is Count Rosek? Is he as pale as ever? Aren’t you going to have anything more? You’ve had hardly anything. D’you know what I should like – a chocolate eclair and a raspberry ice-cream soda with a slice of tangerine in it.”

When she had slowly sucked up that beverage, prodding the slice of tangerine with her straws, they went out and took a cab. On that journey to her studio, Fiorsen tried to possess himself of her hand, but, folding her arms across her chest, she said quietly:

“It’s very bad manners to take advantage of cabs.” And, withdrawing sullenly into his corner, he watched her askance. Was she playing with him? Or had she really ceased to care the snap of a finger? It seemed incredible. The cab, which had been threading the maze of the Soho streets, stopped. Daphne Wing alighted, proceeded down a narrow passage to a green door on the right, and, opening it with a latch-key, paused to say:

“I like it’s being in a little sordid street – it takes away all amateurishness. It wasn’t a studio, of course; it was the back part of a paper-maker’s. Any space conquered for art is something, isn’t it?” She led the way up a few green-carpeted stairs, into a large room with a skylight, whose walls were covered in Japanese silk the colour of yellow azaleas. Here she stood for a minute without speaking, as though lost in the beauty of her home: then, pointing to the walls, she said:

“It took me ages, I did it all myself. And look at my little Japanese trees; aren’t they dickies?” Six little dark abortions of trees were arranged scrupulously on a lofty window-sill, whence the skylight sloped. She added suddenly: “I think Count Rosek would like this room. There’s something bizarre about it, isn’t there? I wanted to surround myself with that, you know – to get the bizarre note into my work. It’s so important nowadays. But through there I’ve got a bedroom and a bathroom and a little kitchen with everything to hand, all quite domestic; and hot water always on. My people are SO funny about this room. They come sometimes, and stand about. But they can’t get used to the neighbourhood; of course it IS sordid, but I think an artist ought to be superior to that.”

Suddenly touched, Fiorsen answered gently:

“Yes, little Daphne.”

She looked at him, and another tiny sigh escaped her.

“Why did you treat me like you did?” she said. “It’s such a pity, because now I can’t feel anything at all.” And turning, she suddenly passed the back of her hand across her eyes. Really moved by that, Fiorsen went towards her, but she had turned round again, and putting out her hand to keep him off, stood shaking her head, with half a tear glistening on her eyelashes.

“Please sit down on the divan,” she said. “Will you smoke? These are Russians.” And she took a white box of pink-coloured cigarettes from a little golden birchwood table. “I have everything Russian and Japanese so far as I can; I think they help more than anything with atmosphere. I’ve got a balalaika; you can’t play on it, can you? What a pity! If only I had a violin! I SHOULD have liked to hear you play again.” She clasped her hands: “Do you remember when I danced to you before the fire?”

Fiorsen remembered only too well. The pink cigarette trembled in his fingers, and he said rather hoarsely:

“Dance to me now, Daphne!”

She shook her head.

“I don’t trust you a yard. Nobody would – would they?”

Fiorsen started up.

“Then why did you ask me here? What are you playing at, you little – ” At sight of her round, unmoving eyes, he stopped. She said calmly:

“I thought you’d like to see that I’d mastered my fate – that’s all. But, of course, if you don’t, you needn’t stop.”

Fiorsen sank back on the divan. A conviction that everything she said was literal had begun slowly to sink into him. And taking a long pull at that pink cigarette he puffed the smoke out with a laugh.

“What are you laughing at?”

“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!”

Fiorsen answered gloomily:

“Triumphs? I made a lot of money.”

Daphne Wing purred:

“Oh, I expect you’re very happy.”

Did she mean to be ironic?

“I’m miserable.”

He got up and went towards her. She looked up in his face.

“I’m sorry if you’re miserable. I know what it feels like.”

“You can help me not to be. Little Daphne, you can help me to forget.” He had stopped, and put his hands on her shoulders. Without moving Daphne Wing answered:

“I suppose it’s Mrs. Fiorsen you want to forget, isn’t it?”

“As if she were dead. Ah, let it all be as it was, Daphne! You have grown up; you are a woman, an artist, and you – ”

Daphne Wing had turned her head toward the stairs.

“That was the bell,” she said. “Suppose it’s my people? It’s just their time! Oh, isn’t that awkward?”

Fiorsen dropped his grasp of her and recoiled against the wall. There with his head touching one of the little Japanese trees, he stood biting his fingers. She was already moving toward the door.