VAfter this, Gyp was daily more and more in contact with high bohemia, that curious composite section of society which embraces the neck of music, poetry, and the drama. She was a success, but secretly she felt that she did not belong to it, nor, in truth, did Fiorsen, who was much too genuine a bohemian, and artist, and mocked at the Gallants and even the Roseks of this life, as he mocked at Winton, Aunt Rosamund, and their world. Life with him had certainly one effect on Gyp; it made her feel less and less a part of that old orthodox, well-bred world which she had known before she married him; but to which she had confessed to Winton she had never felt that she belonged, since she knew the secret of her birth. She was, in truth, much too impressionable, too avid of beauty, and perhaps too naturally critical to accept the dictates of their fact-and-form-governed routine; only, of her own accord, she would never have had initiative enough to step out of its circle. Loosened from those roots, unable to attach herself to this new soil, and not spiritually leagued with her husband, she was more and more lonely. Her only truly happy hours were those spent with Winton or at her piano or with her puppies. She was always wondering at what she had done, longing to find the deep, the sufficient reason for having done it. But the more she sought and longed, the deeper grew her bewilderment, her feeling of being in a cage. Of late, too, another and more definite uneasiness had come to her.
She spent much time in her garden, where the blossoms had all dropped, lilac was over, acacias coming into bloom, and blackbirds silent.
Winton, who, by careful experiment, had found that from half-past three to six there was little or no chance of stumbling across his son-in-law, came in nearly every day for tea and a quiet cigar on the lawn. He was sitting there with Gyp one afternoon, when Betty, who usurped the functions of parlour-maid whenever the whim moved her, brought out a card on which were printed the words, "Miss Daphne Wing.""Bring her out, please, Betty dear, and some fresh tea, and buttered toast--plenty of buttered toast; yes, and the chocolates, and any other sweets there are, Betty darling."Betty, with that expression which always came over her when she was called "darling," withdrew across the grass, and Gyp said to her father:
"It's the little dancer I told you of, Dad. Now you'll see something perfect. Only, she'll be dressed. It's a pity."She was. The occasion had evidently exercised her spirit. In warm ivory, shrouded by leaf-green chiffon, with a girdle of tiny artificial leaves, and a lightly covered head encircled by other green leaves, she was somewhat like a nymph peering 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 get up and walk away, Gyp nodded.
The little dancer placed the sweet in her mouth, and said complacently:
"Of course he has; because he married you."
Then, seeming to grow conscious of Winton's eyes fixed so intently on her, she became confused, swallowed hastily, and said:
"Oh, isn't it lovely here--like the country! I'm afraid I must go;it's my practice-time. It's so important for me not to miss any now, isn't it?" And she rose.
Winton got up, too. Gyp saw the girl's eyes, lighting on his rigid hand, grow round and rounder; and from her, walking past the side of the house, the careful voice floated back:
"Oh, I do hope--" But what, could not be heard.