“Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I thought you wouldn’t mind my coming.  I did so want to see you again.  Count Rosek said he thought I might.  It’s all fixed for my coming-out.  Oh, how do you do?” And with lips and eyes opening at Winton, she sat down in the chair he placed for her.  Gyp, watching his expression, felt inclined to laugh.  Dad, and Daphne Wing!  And the poor girl so evidently anxious to make a good impression!  Presently she asked: 

“Have you been dancing at Count Rosek’s again lately?”

“Oh, yes, haven’t you—­didn’t you—­I—­” And she stopped.

The thought flashed through Gyp, ’So Gustav’s been seeing her, and hasn’t told me!’ But she said at once: 

“Ah, yes, of course; I forgot.  When is the night of your coming-out?”

“Next Friday week.  Fancy!  The Octagon.  Isn’t it splendid?  They’ve given me such a good engagement.  I do so want you and Mr. Fiorsen to come, though!”

Gyp, smiling, murmured: 

“Of course we will.  My father loves dancing, too; don’t you, Dad?”

Winton took his cigar from his mouth.

“When it’s good,” he said, urbanely.

“Oh, mine is good; isn’t it, Mrs. Fiorsen?  I mean, I have worked—­ever since I was thirteen, you know.  I simply love it.  I think you would dance beautifully, Mrs. Fiorsen.  You’ve got such a perfect figure.  I simply love to see you walk.”

Gyp flushed, and said: 

“Do have one of these, Miss Wing—­they’ve got whole raspberries inside.”

The little dancer put one in her mouth.

“Oh, but please don’t call me Miss Wing!  I wish you’d call me Daphne.  Mr. Fior—­everybody does.”

Conscious of her father’s face, Gyp murmured: 

“It’s a lovely name.  Won’t you have another?  These are apricot.”

“They’re perfect.  You know, my first dress is going to be all orange-blossom; Mr. Fiorsen suggested that.  But I expect he told you.  Perhaps you suggested it really; did you?” Gyp shook her head.  “Count Rosek says the world is waiting for me—­” She paused with a sugar-plum halfway to her lips, and added doubtfully:  “Do you think that’s true?”

Gyp answered with a soft:  “I hope so.”

“He says I’m something new.  It would be nice to think that.  He has great taste; so has Mr. Fiorsen, hasn’t he?”

Conscious of the compression in the lips behind the smoke of her father’s cigar, and with a sudden longing to get up and walk away, Gyp nodded.

The little dancer placed the sweet in her mouth, and said complacently: 

“Of course he has; because he married you.”

Then, seeming to grow conscious of Winton’s eyes fixed so intently on her, she became confused, swallowed hastily, and said: 

“Oh, isn’t it lovely here—­like the country!  I’m afraid I must go; it’s my practice-time.  It’s so important for me not to miss any now, isn’t it?” And she rose.