ering from a bower. If rather too arresting,
it was charming, and, after all, no frock could quite disguise the beauty
of her figure. She was evidently nervous.

"Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I thought you wouldn't mind my coming. I did so want
to see you again. Count Rosek said he thought I might. It's all fixed
for my coming-out. Oh, how do you do?" And with lips and eyes opening
at Winton, she sat down in the chair he placed for her. Gyp, watching
his expression, felt inclined to laugh. Dad, and Daphne Wing! And the
poor girl so evidently anxious to make a good impression! Presently she
asked:

"Have you been dancing at Count Rosek's again lately?"

"Oh, yes, haven't you--didn't you--I--" And she stopped.

The thought flashed through Gyp, 'So Gustav's been seeing her, and hasn't
told me!' But she said at once:

"Ah, yes, of course; I forgot. When is the night of your coming-out?"

"Next Friday week. Fancy! The Octagon. Isn't it splendid? They've
given me such a good engagement. I do so want you and Mr. Fiorsen to
come, though!"

Gyp, smiling, murmured:

"Of course we will. My father loves dancing, too; don't you, Dad?"

Winton took his cigar from his mouth.

"When it's good," he said, urbanely.

"Oh, mine IS good; isn't it, Mrs. Fiorsen? I mean, I HAVE worked--ever
since I was thirteen, you know. I simply love it. I think YOU would
dance beautifully, Mrs. Fiorsen. You've got such a perfect figure. I
simply love to see you walk."

Gyp flushed, and said:

"Do have one of these, Miss Wing--they've got whole raspberries inside."

The little dancer put one in her mouth.

"Oh, but please don't call me Miss Wing! I wish you'd call me Daphne.
Mr. Fior--everybody does."

Conscious of her father's face, Gyp murmured:

"It's a lovely name. Won't you have another? These are apricot."

"They're perfect. You know, my first dress is going to be all
orange-blossom; Mr. Fiorsen suggested that. But I expect he told you.
Perhaps you suggested it really; did you?" Gyp shook her head. "Count
Rosek says the world is waiting for me--" She paused with a sugar-plum
halfway to her lips, and added doubtfully: "Do you think that's true?"

Gyp answered with a soft: "I hope so."

"He says I'm something new. It would be nice to think that. He has
great taste; so has Mr. Fiorsen, hasn't he?"

Conscious of the compression in the lips behind the smoke of her father's
cigar, and with a sudden longing to