"Oh, I think that's the nicest thing you ever said to me! Only, of course, I should like to think I'm more of the Greek type--pagan, you know."She fell silent, casting her eyes down. Her profile at that moment, against the light, was very pure and soft in line. And he said:
"I suppose you hate me, little Daphne? You ought to hate me."Daphne Wing looked up; her round, blue-grey eyes passed over him much as they had been passing over the marzipan.
"No; I don't hate you--now. Of course, if I had any love left for you, I should. Oh, isn't that Irish? But one can think anybody a rotter without hating them, can't one?"Fiorsen bit his lips.
"So you think me a 'rotter'?"
Daphne Wing's eyes grew rounder.
"But aren't you? You couldn't be anything else--could you?--with the sort of things you did.""And yet you don't mind having tea with me?"
Daphne Wing, who had begun to eat and drink, said with her mouth full:
"You see, I'm independent now, and I know life. That makes you harmless."Fiorsen stretched out his hand and seized hers just where her little warm pulse was beating very steadily. She looked at it, changed her fork over, and went on eating with the other hand.
Fiorsen drew his hand away as if he had been stung.
"Ah, you HAVE changed--that is certain!"
"Yes; you wouldn't expect anything else, would you? You see, one doesn't go through that for nothing. I think I was a dreadful little fool--" She stopped, with her spoon on its way to her mouth--"and yet--""I love you still, little Daphne."
She slowly turned her head toward him, and a faint sigh escaped her.
"Once I would have given a lot to hear that."And turning her head away again, she picked a large walnut out of her cake and put it in her mouth.
"Are you coming to see my studio? I've got it rather nice and new.
I'm making twenty-five a week; my next engagement, I'm going to get thirty. I should like Mrs. Fiorsen to know-- Oh, I forgot; you don't like me to speak of her! Why not? I wish you'd tell me!"Gazing, as the attendant had, at his furious face, she went on: "Idon't know how it is, but I'm not a bit afraid of you now. I used to be. Oh, how is Count Rosek? Is he as pale as ever? Aren't you going to have anything more? You've had hardly anything. D'you know what I should like--a chocolate eclair and a raspberry ice-cream soda with a slice of tangerine in it."
When she had slowly sucked up that beverage, prodding the slice of tangerine with her straws, they went out and took a cab. On that journey to her studio, Fiorsen tried to possess himself of her hand, but, folding her arms across her chest, she said quietly:
"It's very bad manners to take advantage of cabs." And, withdrawing sullenly into his corner, he watched her askance. Was she playing with him? Or had she really ceased to care the snap of a finger? It seemed incredible. The cab, which had been threading the maze of the Soho streets, stopped. Daphne Wing alighted, proceeded down a narrow passage to a green door on the right, and, opening it with a latch-key, paused to say:
"I like it's being in a little sordid street--it takes away all amateurishness. It wasn't a studio, of course; it was the back part of a paper-maker's. Any space conquered for art is something, isn't it?" She led the way up a few green-carpeted stairs, into a large room with a skylight, whose walls were covered in Japanese silk the colour of yellow azaleas. Here she stood for a minute without speaking, as though lost in the beauty of her home: then, pointing to the walls, she said:
"It took me ages, I did it all myself. And look at my little Japanese trees; aren't they dickies?" Six little dark abortions of trees were arranged scrupulously on a lofty window-sill, whence the skylight sloped. She added suddenly: "I think Count Rosek would like this room. There's something bizarre about it, isn't there?
I wanted to surround myself with that, you know--to get the bizarre note into my work. It's so important nowadays. But through there I've got a bedroom and a bathroom and a little kitchen with everything to hand, all quite domestic; and hot water always on.
My people are SO funny about this room. They come sometimes, and stand about. But they can't get used to the neighbourhood; of course it IS sordid, but I think an artist ought to be superior to that."Suddenly touched, Fiorsen answered gently:
"Yes, little Daphne."
She looked at him, and another tiny sigh escaped her.
"Why did you treat me like you did?" she said. "It's such a pity, because now I can't feel anything at all." And turning, she suddenly passed the back of her hand across her eyes. Really moved by that, Fiorsen went towards her, but she had turned round again, and putting out her hand to keep him off, stood shaking her head, with half a tear glistening on her eyelashes.
"Please sit down on the divan," she said. "Will you smoke? These are Russians." And she took a white box of pink-coloured cigarettes from a little golden birchwood table. "I have everything Russian and Japanese so far as I can; I think they help more than anything with atmosphere. I've got a balalaika; you can't play on it, can you? What a pity! If only I had a violin!
I SHOULD have liked to hear you play again." She clasped her hands: "Do you remember when I danced to you before the fire?"Fiorsen remembered only too well. The pink cigarette trembled in his fingers, and he said rather hoarsely:
"Dance to me now, Daphne!"
She shook her head.
"I don't trust you a yard. Nobody would--would they?"Fiorsen started up.
"Then why did you ask me here? What are you playing at, you little--" At sight of her round, unmoving eyes, he stopped. She said calmly:
"I thought you'd like to see that I'd mastered my fate--that's all.
But, of course, if you don't, you needn't stop."Fiorsen sank back on the divan. A conviction that everything she said was literal had begun slowly to sink into him. And taking a long pull at that pink cigarette he puffed the smoke out with a laugh.
"What are you laughing at?"
