little devil! The little
dovelike devil! He saw a lady in a silk dress, green shot with beetroot
colour, a short, thick gentleman with a round, greyish beard, in a grey
suit, having a small dahlia in his buttonhole, and, behind them, Daphne
Wing, flushed, and very round-eyed. He took a step, intending to escape
without more ado. The gentleman said:

"Introduce us, Daisy. I didn't quite catch--Mr. Dawson? How do you do,
sir? One of my daughter's impresarios, I think. 'Appy to meet you, I'm
sure."

Fiorsen took a long breath, and bowed. Mr. Wagge's small piggy eyes had
fixed themselves on the little trees.

"She's got a nice little place here for her work--quiet and
unconventional. I hope you think well of her talent, sir? You might go
further and fare worse, I believe."

Again Fiorsen bowed.

"You may be proud of her," he said; "she is the rising star."

Mr. Wagge cleared his throat.

"Ow," he said; "ye'es! From a little thing, we thought she had stuff
in her. I've come to take a great interest in her work. It's not in my
line, but I think she's a sticker; I like to see perseverance. Where
you've got that, you've got half the battle of success. So many of these
young people seem to think life's all play. You must see a lot of that
in your profession, sir."

"Robert!"

A shiver ran down Fiorsen's spine.

"Ye-es?"

"The name was not DAWson!"

There followed a long moment. On the one side was that vinegary woman
poking her head forward like an angry hen, on the other, Daphne Wing,
her eyes rounder and rounder, her cheeks redder and redder, her lips
opening, her hands clasped to her perfect breast, and, in the centre,
that broad, grey-bearded figure, with reddening face and angry eyes and
hoarsening voice:

"You scoundrel! You infernal scoundrel!" It lurched forward, raising a
pudgy fist. Fiorsen sprang down the stairs and wrenched open the door.
He walked away in a whirl of mortification. Should he go back and
take that pug-faced vulgarian by the throat? As for that minx! But his
feelings about HER were too complicated for expression. And then--so
dark and random are the ways of the mind--his thoughts darted back to
Gyp, sitting on the oaken chest, making her confession; and the whips
and stings of it scored him worse than ever.

X

That same evening, standing at the corner of Bury Street, Summerhay
watched Gyp going swiftly to her father's house. He could not bring
himself to move while there was