And Gyp, though excited always by anything new, keenly alive to every sort of beauty, felt a longing for air and sunlight. It was a relief to get close to one of the black-curtained windows, and see the westering sun shower warmth and light on the trees of the Square gardens. She was introduced to a Mr. and Mrs. Gallant, a dark-faced, cynical-looking man with clever, malicious eyes, and one of those large cornucopias of women with avid blue stares. The little dancer was not there. She had "gone to put on nothing,"Rosek informed them.
He took Gyp the round of his treasures, scarabs, Rops drawings, death-masks, Chinese pictures, and queer old flutes, with an air of displaying them for the first time to one who could truly appreciate. And she kept thinking of that saying, "Une technique merveilleuse." Her instinct apprehended the refined bone-viciousness of this place, where nothing, save perhaps taste, would be sacred. It was her first glimpse into that gilt-edged bohemia, whence the generosities, the elans, the struggles of the true bohemia are as rigidly excluded as from the spheres where bishops moved. But she talked and smiled; and no one could have told that her nerves were crisping as if at contact with a corpse. While showing her those alabaster jars, her host had laid his hand softly on her wrist, and in taking it away, he let his fingers, with a touch softer than a kitten's paw, ripple over the skin, then put them to his lips. Ah, there it was--the--the TECHNIQUE! Adesperate desire to laugh seized her. And he saw it--oh, yes, he saw it! He gave her one look, passed that same hand over his smooth face, and--behold!--it showed as before, unmortified, unconscious. A deadly little man!
When they returned to the salon, as it was called, Miss Daphne Wing in a black kimono, whence her face and arms emerged more like alabaster than ever, was sitting on a divan beside Fiorsen. She rose at once and came across to Gyp.
"Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen"--why did everything she said begin with "Oh"--"isn't this room lovely? It's perfect for dancing. I only brought cream, and flame-colour; they go so beautifully with black."She threw back her kimono for Gyp to inspect her dress--a girdled cream-coloured shift, which made her ivory arms and neck seem more than ever dazzling; and her mouth opened, as if for a sugar-plum of praise. Then, lowering her voice, she murmured:
"Do you know, I'm rather afraid of Count Rosek.""Why?"
"Oh, I don't know; he's so critical, and smooth, and he comes up so quietly. I do think your husband plays wonderfully. Oh, Mrs.
Fiorsen, you are beautiful, aren't you?" Gyp laughed. "What would you like me to dance first? A waltz of Chopin's?""Yes; I love Chopin."
"Then I shall. I shall dance exactly what you like, because I do admire you, and I'm sure you're awfully sweet. Oh, yes; you are; Ican see that! And I think your husband's awfully in love with you.
I should be, if I were a man. You know, I've been studying five years, and I haven't come out yet. But now Count Rosek's going to back me, I expect it'll be very soon. Will you come to my first night? Mother says I've got to be awfully careful. She only let me come this evening because you were going to be here. Would you like me to begin?"She slid across to Rosek, and Gyp heard her say:
"Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen wants me to begin; a Chopin waltz, please. The one that goes like this."Rosek went to the piano, the little dancer to the centre of the room. Gyp sat down beside Fiorsen.
Rosek began playing, his eyes fixed on the girl, and his mouth loosened from compression in a sweetish smile. Miss Daphne Wing was standing with her finger-tips joined at her breast--a perfect statue of ebony and palest wax. Suddenly she flung away the black kimono. A thrill swept Gyp from head to foot. She COULD dance--that common little girl! Every movement of her round, sinuous body, of her bare limbs, had the ecstasy of natural genius, controlled by the quivering balance of a really fine training. "Adove flying!" So she was. Her face had lost its vacancy, or rather its vacancy had become divine, having that look--not lost but gone before--which dance demands. Yes, she was a gem, even if she had a common soul. Tears came up in Gyp's eyes. It was so lovely--like a dove, when it flings itself up in the wind, breasting on up, up--wings bent back, poised. Abandonment, freedom--chastened, shaped, controlled!
When, after the dance, the girl came and sat down beside her, she squeezed her hot little hand, but the caress was for her art, not for this moist little person with the lips avid of sugar-plums.
"Oh, did you like it? I'm so glad. Shall I go and put on my flame-colour, now?"The moment she was gone, comment broke out freely. The dark and cynical Gallant thought the girl's dancing like a certain Napierkowska whom he had seen in Moscow, without her fire--the touch of passion would have to be supplied. She wanted love!
Love! And suddenly Gyp was back in the concert-hall, listening to that other girl singing the song of a broken heart.
"Thy kiss, dear love--
Like watercress gathered fresh from cool streams."Love! in this abode--of fauns' heads, deep cushions, silver dancing girls! Love! She had a sudden sense of deep abasement. What was she, herself, but just a feast for a man's senses? Her home, what but a place like this? Miss Daphne Wing was back again. Gyp looked at her husband's face while she was dancing. His lips! How was it that she could see that disturbance in him, and not care?
If she had really loved him, to see his lips like that would have hurt her, but she might have understood perhaps, and forgiven. Now she neither quite understood nor quite forgave.
And that night, when he kissed her, she murmured:
"Would you rather it were that girl--not me?""That girl! I could swallow her at a draft. But you, my Gyp--Iwant to drink for ever!"
Was that true? IF she had loved him--how good to hear!
