Queer how the memory of that ruined, frightened face peering over the
bed-clothes and begging for life should come back to him after eight
years. And yet the connexion was obvious enough. He looked at
Mademoiselle Labelle with a new interest. It was impossible that she
should have read his thoughts, but he knew by the little twist of her red
mouth that she had understood his insult. She seemed to ponder over it
dispassionately.

"That's true--_c'est bien vrai, ca_. I 'ave been lucky. I shall always
be lucky. Everybody knows that. They say: 'Our Gyp, she will 'ave a
good time at 'er funeral.' No, no. Monsieur Rufus, I will not drink.
If I drink I might dance--'ere on this table--and ze company is so ver'
respectable. Listen." She laid her hand on Stonehouse's arm as
unconsciously as though he had been an old friend. "Listen. They play
ze 'Gyp Gal-lop.' That is because I am 'ere. Ze conductor, 'e know
me--he like 'is leetle joke. _C'est drole_--every time I 'ear it played
I want to get up and dance and dance----" She hummed under her breath,
beating time with her cigarette.

"I'm Gyp Labelle;
If you dance with me. . . ."

Obviously she knew that the severely elegant men and women on either hand
watched her with a covert, chilly hostility. But there was something
oddly simple in her acceptance of their attitude. Therein, no doubt, lay
some of her power. She was herself. She didn't care. She was too
strong. She had ruined people like that--people every whit as hostile,
and self-assured, and respectable--and had gone free without a scratch.
She could afford to laugh at them, to ignore them, as it pleased her.