“You did look so lovely; I couldn’t help it, really.”

And Gyp gave her hand the squeeze of compunction.

They went indoors, to try over the music of the two dances; and soon after Daphne Wing departed, full of sugar-plums and hope.

She arrived punctually at eight o’clock next Sunday, carrying an exiguous green linen bag, which contained her dresses.  She was subdued, and, now that it had come to the point, evidently a little scared.  Lobster salad, hock, and peaches restored her courage.  She ate heartily.  It did not apparently matter to her whether she danced full or empty; but she would not smoke.

“It’s bad for the—­” She checked herself.

When they had finished supper, Gyp shut the dogs into the back premises; she had visions of their rending Miss Wing’s draperies, or calves.  Then they went into the drawing-room, not lighting up, that they might tell when the moonlight was strong enough outside.  Though it was the last night of August, the heat was as great as ever—­a deep, unstirring warmth; the climbing moon shot as yet but a thin shaft here and there through the heavy foliage.  They talked in low voices, unconsciously playing up to the nature of the escapade.  As the moon drew up, they stole out across the garden to the music-room.  Gyp lighted the candles.

“Can you manage?”

Miss Daphne had already shed half her garments.

“Oh, I’m so excited, Mrs. Fiorsen!  I do hope I shall dance well.”

Gyp stole back to the house; it being Sunday evening, the servants had been easily disposed of.  She sat down at the piano, turning her eyes toward the garden.  A blurred white shape flitted suddenly across the darkness at the far end and became motionless, as it might be a white-flowering bush under the trees.  Miss Daphne had come out, and was waiting for the moon.  Gyp began to play.  She pitched on a little Sicilian pastorale that the herdsmen play on their pipes coming down from the hills, softly, from very far, rising, rising, swelling to full cadence, and failing, failing away again to nothing.  The moon rose over the trees; its light flooded the face of the house, down on to the grass, and spread slowly back toward where the girl stood waiting.  It caught the border of sunflowers along the garden wall with a stroke of magical, unearthly colour—­gold that was not gold.

Gyp began to play the dance.  The pale blurr in the darkness stirred.  The moonlight fell on the girl now, standing with arms spread, holding out her drapery—­a white, winged statue.  Then, like a gigantic moth she fluttered forth, blanched and noiseless flew over the grass, spun and hovered.  The moonlight etched out the shape of her head, painted her hair with pallid gold.  In the silence, with that unearthly gleam of colour along the sunflowers and on the girl’s head, it was as if a spirit had dropped into the garden and was fluttering to and fro, unable to get out.