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.

“My mother’s got a key, and it’s no good putting you anywhere, because she always has a good look round.  But perhaps it isn’t them.  Besides, I’m not afraid now; it makes a wonderful difference being on one’s own.”

She disappeared.  Fiorsen could hear a woman’s acid voice, a man’s, rather hoarse and greasy, the sound of a smacking kiss.  And, with a vicious shrug, he stood at bay.  Trapped!  The little devil!  The little dovelike devil!  He saw a lady in a silk dress, green shot with beetroot colour, a short, thick gentleman with a round, greyish beard, in a grey suit, having a small dahlia in his buttonhole, and, behind them, Daphne Wing, flushed, and very round-eyed.  He took a step, intending to escape without more ado.  The gentleman said: 

“Introduce us, Daisy.  I didn’t quite catch—­Mr. Dawson?  How do you do, sir?  One of my daughter’s impresarios, I think.  ’Appy to meet you, I’m sure.”

Fiorsen took a long breath, and bowed.  Mr. Wagge’s small piggy eyes had fixed themselves on the little trees.

“She’s got a nice little place here for her work—­quiet and unconventional.  I hope you think well of her talent, sir?  You might go further and fare worse, I believe.”

Again Fiorsen bowed.

“You may be proud of her,” he said; “she is the rising star.”

Mr. Wagge cleared his throat.

“Ow,” he said; “ye’es!  From a little thing, we thought she had stuff in her.  I’ve come to take a great interest in her work.  It’s not in my line, but I think she’s a sticker; I like to see perseverance.  Where you’ve got that, you’ve got half the battle of success.  So many of these young people seem to think life’s all play.  You must see a lot of that in your profession, sir.”

“Robert!”

A shiver ran down Fiorsen’s spine.

“Ye-es?”

“The name was not DAWson!”