Coming in from a ride, a week after she had sat with Winton under the Schiller statue, Gyp found on her dressing-table a bunch of Gloire de Dijon and La France roses.  Plunging her nose into them, she thought:  “How lovely!  Who sent me these?” There was no card.  All that the German maid could say was that a boy had brought them from a flower shop “fur Fraulein Vinton”; it was surmised that they came from the baroness.  In her bodice at dinner, and to the concert after, Gyp wore one La France and one Gloire de Dijon—­a daring mixture of pink and orange against her oyster-coloured frock, which delighted her, who had a passion for experiments in colour.  They had bought no programme, all music being the same to Winton, and Gyp not needing any.  When she saw Fiorsen come forward, her cheeks began to colour from sheer anticipation.

He played first a minuet by Mozart; then the Cesar Franck sonata; and when he came back to make his bow, he was holding in his hand a Gloire de Dijon and a La France rose.  Involuntarily, Gyp raised her hand to her own roses.  His eyes met hers; he bowed just a little lower.  Then, quite naturally, put the roses to his lips as he was walking off the platform.  Gyp dropped her hand, as if it had been stung.  Then, with the swift thought:  “Oh, that’s schoolgirlish!” she contrived a little smile.  But her cheeks were flushing.  Should she take out those roses and let them fall?  Her father might see, might notice Fiorsen’s—­put two and two together!  He would consider she had been insulted.  Had she?  She could not bring herself to think so.  It was too pretty a compliment, as if he wished to tell her that he was playing to her alone.  The baroness’s words flashed through her mind:  “He wants saving from himself.  Pity!  A great talent!” It was a great talent.  There must be something worth saving in one who could play like that!  They left after his last solo.  Gyp put the two roses carefully back among the others.

Three days later, she went to an afternoon “at home” at the Baroness von Maisen’s.  She saw him at once, over by the piano, with his short, square companion, listening to a voluble lady, and looking very bored and restless.  All that overcast afternoon, still and with queer lights in the sky, as if rain were coming, Gyp had been feeling out of mood, a little homesick.  Now she felt excited.  She saw the short companion detach himself and go up to the baroness; a minute later, he was brought up to her and introduced—­Count Rosek.  Gyp did not like his face; there were dark rings under the eyes, and he was too perfectly self-possessed, with a kind of cold sweetness; but he was very agreeable and polite, and spoke English well.  He was—­it seemed—­a Pole, who lived in London, and seemed to know all that was to be known about music.  Miss Winton—­he believed—­had heard his friend Fiorsen play; but not in London?  No?  That was odd; he had been there some months last season.  Faintly annoyed at her ignorance, Gyp answered: