pleasure, the queerness of
the notion, and her real love of seeing this girl dance, made her say:

"Yes; next Sunday."

Daphne Wing got up, made a rush, and kissed her. Her mouth was soft, and
she smelled of orange blossom; but Gyp recoiled a little--she hated
promiscuous kisses. Somewhat abashed, Miss Daphne hung her head, and
said:

"You did look so lovely; I couldn't help it, really."

And Gyp gave her hand the squeeze of compunction.

They went indoors, to try over the music of the two dances; and soon
after Daphne Wing departed, full of sugar-plums and hope.

She arrived punctually at eight o'clock next Sunday, carrying an exiguous
green linen bag, which contained her dresses. She was subdued, and, now
that it had come to the point, evidently a little scared. Lobster salad,
hock, and peaches restored her courage. She ate heartily. It did not
apparently matter to her whether she danced full or empty; but she would
not smoke.

"It's bad for the--" She checked herself.

When they had finished supper, Gyp shut the dogs into the back premises;
she had visions of their rending Miss Wing's draperies, or calves. Then
they went into the drawing-room, not lighting up, that they might tell
when the moonlight was strong enough outside. Though it was the last
night of August, the heat was as great as ever--a deep, unstirring
warmth; the climbing moon shot as yet but a thin shaft here and there
through the heavy foliage. They talked in low voices, unconsciously
playing up to the nature of the escapade. As the moon drew up, they
stole out across the garden to the music-room. Gyp lighted the candles.

"Can you manage?"

Miss Daphne had already shed half her garments.

"Oh, I'm so excited, Mrs. Fiorsen! I do hope I shall dance well."

Gyp stole back to the house; it being Sunday evening, the servants had
been easily disposed of. She sat down at the piano, turning her eyes
toward the garden. A blurred white shape flitted suddenly across the
darkness at the far end and became motionless, as it might be a
white-flowering bush under the trees. Miss Daphne had come out, and was
waiting for the moon. Gyp began to play. She pitched on a little
Sicilian pastorale that the herdsmen play on their pipes coming down from
the hills, softly, from very far, rising, rising, swelling to full
cadence, and failing, failing away again to nothing. The moon rose over
the trees; its light flooded the face of the house, dow