ace 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