wards Piccadilly. If it had not been for the expression
on Gyp's face, what might he not have done? And, mixed with sickening
jealousy, he felt a sort of relief, as if he had been saved from
something horrible. So she had never loved him! Never at all?
Impossible! Impossible that a woman on whom he had lavished such passion
should never have felt passion for him--never any! Innumerable images of
her passed before him--surrendering, always surrendering. It could not
all have been pretence! He was not a common man--she herself had said
so; he had charm--or, other women thought so! She had lied; she must
have lied, to excuse herself!

He went into a cafe and asked for a fine champagne. They brought him
a carafe, with the measures marked. He sat there a long time. When he
rose, he had drunk nine, and he felt better, with a kind of ferocity
that was pleasant in his veins and a kind of nobility that was pleasant
in his soul. Let her love, and be happy with her lover! But let him get
his fingers on that fellow's throat! Let her be happy, if she could keep
her lover from him! And suddenly, he stopped in his tracks, for there
on a sandwich-board just in front of him were the words: "Daphne Wing.
Pantheon. Daphne Wing. Plastic Danseuse. Poetry of Motion. To-day at
three o'clock. Pantheon. Daphne Wing."

Ah, SHE had loved him--little Daphne! It was past three. Going in, he
took his place in the stalls, close to the stage, and stared before him,
with a sort of bitter amusement. This was irony indeed! Ah--and here
she came! A Pierrette--in short, diaphanous muslin, her face whitened to
match it; a Pierrette who stood slowly spinning on her toes, with arms
raised and hands joined in an arch above her glistening hair.

Idiotic pose! Idiotic! But there was the old expression on her face,
limpid, dovelike. And that something of the divine about her dancing
smote Fiorsen through all the sheer imbecility of her posturings. Across
and across she flitted, pirouetting, caught up at intervals by a Pierrot
in black tights with a face as whitened as her own, held upside down, or
right end up with one knee bent sideways, and the toe of a foot pressed
against the ankle of the other, and arms arched above her. Then, with
Pierrot's hands grasping her waist, she would stand upon one toe
and slowly twiddle, lifting her other leg toward the roof, while the
trembling of her form manifested cunningly to all how hard it was; then,
off the toe, she cape