"I was thinking, little Daphne, that you are as great an egoist as I.""I want to be. It's the only thing, isn't it?"Fiorsen laughed again.
"You needn't worry. You always were."
She had seated herself on an Indian stool covered with a bit of Turkish embroidery, and, joining her hands on her lap, answered gravely:
"No; I think I wasn't, while I loved you. But it didn't pay, did it?"Fiorsen stared at her.
"It has made a woman of you, Daphne. Your face is different. Your mouth is prettier for my kisses--or the want of them. All over, you are prettier." Pink came up in Daphne Wing's cheeks. And, encouraged by that flush, he went on warmly: "If you loved me now, I should not tire of you. Oh, you can believe me! I--"She shook her head.
"We won't talk about love, will we? Did you have a big triumph in Moscow and St. Petersburg? It must be wonderful to have really great triumphs!"Fiorsen answered gloomily:
"Triumphs? I made a lot of money."
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!"
There followed a long moment. On the one side was that vinegary woman poking her head forward like an angry hen, on the other, Daphne Wing, her eyes rounder and rounder, her cheeks redder and redder, her lips opening, her hands clasped to her perfect breast, and, in the centre, that broad, grey-bearded figure, with reddening face and angry eyes and hoarsening voice:
"You scoundrel! You infernal scoundrel!" It lurched forward, raising a pudgy fist. Fiorsen sprang down the stairs and wrenched open the door. He walked away in a whirl of mortification. Should he go back and take that pug-faced vulgarian by the throat? As for that minx! But his feelings about HER were too complicated for expression. And then--so dark and random are the ways of the mind--his thoughts darted back to Gyp, sitting on the oaken chest, ****** her confession; and the whips and stings of it scored him worse than ever.
XThat same evening, standing at the corner of Bury Street, Summerhay watched Gyp going swiftly to her father's house. He could not bring himself to move while there was still a chance to catch a glimpse of her face, a sign from her hand. Gone! He walked away with his head down. The more blissful the hours just spent, the greater the desolation when they are over. Of such is the nature of love, as he was now discerning. The longing to have her always with him was growing fast. Since her husband knew--why wait?
There would be no rest for either of them in an existence of meetings and partings like this, with the menace of that fellow.
She must come away with him at once--abroad--until things had declared themselves; and then he must find a place where they could live and she feel safe and happy. He must show he was in dead earnest, set his affairs in order. And he thought: 'No good doing things by halves. Mother must know. The sooner the better. Get it over--at once!' And, with a grimace of discomfort, he set out for his aunt's house in Cadogan Gardens, where his mother always stayed when she was in town.
