Sunlight, piercing the shade, suddenly fell warm on Gyp’s neck where her blouse ceased, and fortunately stilled the medley of emotion and laughter a little lower down.  She continued to look gravely at Daphne Wing, who resumed: 

“Of course, Mother would have fits if I asked her such a question, and I don’t know what Father would do.  Only it is important, isn’t it?  One may go all wrong from the start; and I do really want to get on.  I simply adore my work.  I don’t mean to let love stand in its way; I want to make it help, you know.  Count Rosek says my dancing lacks passion.  I wish you’d tell me if you think it does.  I should believe you.”

Gyp shook her head.

“I’m not a judge.”

Daphne Wing looked up reproachfully.

“Oh, I’m sure you are!  If I were a man, I should be passionately in love with you.  I’ve got a new dance where I’m supposed to be a nymph pursued by a faun; it’s so difficult to feel like a nymph when you know it’s only the ballet-master.  Do you think I ought to put passion into that?  You see, I’m supposed to be flying all the time; but it would be much more subtle, wouldn’t it, if I could give the impression that I wanted to be caught.  Don’t you think so?”

Gyp said suddenly: 

“Yes, I think it would do you good to be in love.”

Miss Daphne’s mouth fell a little open; her eyes grew round.  She said: 

“You frightened me when you said that.  You looked so different—­ so—­intense.”

A flame indeed had leaped up in Gyp.  This fluffy, flabby talk of love set her instincts in revolt.  She did not want to love; she had failed to fall in love.  But, whatever love was like, it did not bear talking about.  How was it that this little suburban girl, when she once got on her toes, could twirl one’s emotions as she did?

“D’you know what I should simply revel in?” Daphne Wing went on:  “To dance to you here in the garden some night.  It must be wonderful to dance out of doors; and the grass is nice and hard now.  Only, I suppose it would shock the servants.  Do they look out this way?” Gyp shook her head.  “I could dance over there in front of the drawing-room window.  Only it would have to be moonlight.  I could come any Sunday.  I’ve got a dance where I’m supposed to be a lotus flower—­that would do splendidly.  And there’s my real moonlight dance that goes to Chopin.  I could bring my dresses, and change in the music-room, couldn’t I?” She wriggled up, and sat cross-legged, gazing at Gyp, and clasping her hands.  “Oh, may I?”

Her excitement infected Gyp.  A desire to give pleasure, the queerness of the notion, and her real love of seeing this girl dance, made her say: 

“Yes; next Sunday.”

Daphne Wing got up, made a rush, and kissed her.  Her mouth was soft, and she smelled of orange blossom; but Gyp recoiled a little—­ she hated promiscuous kisses.  Somewhat abashed, Miss Daphne hung her head, and said: