round, unmoving eyes, he stopped. She said calmly:

"I thought you'd like to see that I'd mastered my fate--that's all. But,
of course, if you don't, you needn't stop."

Fiorsen sank back on the divan. A conviction that everything she said
was literal had begun slowly to sink into him. And taking a long pull at
that pink cigarette he puffed the smoke out with a laugh.

"What are you laughing at?"

"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 is