And now she came on for her second dance, assisted this time only by her own image reflected in a little weedy pool about the middle of the stage. From the programme Fiorsen read, "Ophelia's last dance," and again he grinned. In a clinging sea-green gown, cut here and there to show her inevitable legs, with marguerites and corn-flowers in her unbound hair, she circled her own reflection, languid, pale, desolate; then slowly gaining the abandon needful to a full display, danced with frenzy till, in a gleam of limelight, she sank into the apparent water and floated among paper water-lilies on her back. Lovely she looked there, with her eyes still open, her lips parted, her hair trailing behind. And again Fiorsen raised his hands high to clap, and again called out: 'Brava!' But the curtain fell, and Ophelia did not reappear. Was it the sight of him, or was she preserving the illusion that she was drowned?
That "arty" touch would be just like her.
Averting his eyes from two comedians in calico, beating each other about the body, he rose with an audible "Pish!" and made his way out. He stopped in the street to scribble on his card, "Will you see me?--G. F." and took it round to the stage-door. The answer came back:
"Miss Wing will see you m a minute, sir."
And leaning against the distempered wall of the draughty corridor, a queer smile on his face, Fiorsen wondered why the devil he was there, and what the devil she would say.
When he was admitted, she was standing with her hat on, while her "dresser" buttoned her patent-leather shoes. Holding out her hand above the woman's back, she said:
"Oh, Mr. Fiorsen, how do you do?"
Fiorsen took the little moist hand; and his eyes passed over her, avoiding a direct meeting with her eyes. He received an impression of something harder, more self-possessed, than he remembered. Her face was the same, yet not the same; only her perfect, supple little body was as it had been. The dresser rose, murmured: "Good-afternoon, miss," and went.
Daphne Wing smiled faintly.
"I haven't seen you for a long time, have I?""No; I've been abroad. You dance as beautifully as ever.""Oh, yes; it hasn't hurt my dancing."
With an effort, he looked her in the face. Was this really the same girl who had clung to him, cloyed him with her kisses, her tears, her appeals for love--just a little love? Ah, but she was more desirable, much more desirable than he had remembered! And he said:
"Give me a kiss, little Daphne!"
Daphne Wing did not stir; her white teeth rested on her lower lip;she said:
"Oh, no, thank you! How is Mrs. Fiorsen?"
Fiorsen turned abruptly.
"There is none."
"Oh, has she divorced you?"
"No. Stop talking of her; stop talking, I say!"Daphne Wing, still motionless in the centre of her little crowded dressing-room said, in a matter-of-fact voice:
"You are polite, aren't you? It's funny; I can't tell whether I'm glad to see you. I had a bad time, you know; and Mrs. Fiorsen was an angel. Why do you come to see me now?"Exactly! Why had he come? The thought flashed through him:
'She'll help me to forget.' And he said:
"I was a great brute to you, Daphne. I came to make up, if I can.""Oh, no; you can't make up--thank you!" A shudder ran through her, and she began drawing on her gloves. "You taught me a lot, you know. I ought to be quite grateful. Oh, you've grown a little beard! D'you think that improves you? It makes you look rather like Mephistopheles, I think."Fiorsen stared fixedly at that perfectly shaped face, where a faint, underdone pink mingled with the fairness of the skin. Was she mocking him? Impossible! She looked too matter of fact.
"Where do you live now?" he said.
"I'm on my own, in a studio. You can come and see it, if you like.""With pleasure."
"Only, you'd better understand. I've had enough of love."Fiorsen grinned.
"Even for another?" he said.
Daphne Wing answered calmly:
"I wish you would treat me like a lady."
Fiorsen bit his lip, and bowed.
"May I have the pleasure of giving you some tea?""Yes, thank you; I'm very hungry. I don't eat lunch on matinee-days; I find it better not. Do you like my Ophelia dance?""It's artificial."
"Yes, it IS artificial--it's done with mirrors and wire netting, you know. But do I give you the illusion of being mad?" Fiorsen nodded. "I'm so glad. Shall we go? I do want my tea."She turned round, scrutinized herself in the glass, touched her hat with both hands, revealing, for a second, all the poised beauty of her figure, took a little bag from the back of a chair, and said:
"I think, if you don't mind going on, it's less conspicuous. I'll meet you at Ruffel's--they have lovely things there. Au revoir."In a state of bewilderment, irritation, and queer meekness, Fiorsen passed down Coventry Street, and entering the empty Ruffel's, took a table near the window. There he sat staring before him, for the sudden vision of Gyp sitting on that oaken chest, at the foot of her bed, had blotted the girl clean out. The attendant coming to take his order, gazed at his pale, furious face, and said mechanically:
"What can I get you, please?"
Looking up, Fiorsen saw Daphne Wing outside, gazing at the cakes in the window. She came in.
"Oh, here you are! I should like iced coffee and walnut cake, and some of those marzipan sweets--oh, and some whipped cream with my cake. Do you mind?" And, sitting down, she fixed her eyes on his face and asked:
"Where have you been abroad?"
"Stockholm, Budapest, Moscow, other places."
"How perfect! Do you think I should make a success in Budapest or Moscow?""You might; you are English enough."
"Oh! Do you think I'm very English?"
"Utterly. Your kind of--" But even he was not quite capable of finishing that sentence--"your kind of vulgarity could not be produced anywhere else." Daphne Wing finished it for him:
"My kind of beauty?"
Fiorsen grinned and nodded.
