her oyster-coloured frock, which delighted her, who had a passion for
experiments in colour. They had bought no programme, all music being
the same to Winton, and Gyp not needing any. When she saw Fiorsen come
forward, her cheeks began to colour from sheer anticipation.

He played first a minuet by Mozart; then the Cesar Franck sonata; and
when he came back to make his bow, he was holding in his hand a Gloire
de Dijon and a La France rose. Involuntarily, Gyp raised her hand to her
own roses. His eyes met hers; he bowed just a little lower. Then, quite
naturally, put the roses to his lips as he was walking off the platform.
Gyp dropped her hand, as if it had been stung. Then, with the swift
thought: "Oh, that's schoolgirlish!" she contrived a little smile. But
her cheeks were flushing. Should she take out those roses and let them
fall? Her father might see, might notice Fiorsen's--put two and two
together! He would consider she had been insulted. Had she? She could
not bring herself to think so. It was too pretty a compliment, as if
he wished to tell her that he was playing to her alone. The baroness's
words flashed through her mind: "He wants saving from himself. Pity!
A great talent!" It WAS a great talent. There must be something worth
saving in one who could play like that! They left after his last solo.
Gyp put the two roses carefully back among the others.

Three days later, she went to an afternoon "at home" at the Baroness von
Maisen's. She saw him at once, over by the piano, with his short, square
companion, listening to a voluble lady, and looking very bored and
restless. All that overcast afternoon, still and with queer lights in
the sky, as if rain were coming, Gyp had been feeling out of mood,
a little homesick. Now she felt excited. She saw the short companion
detach himself and go up to the baroness; a minute later, he was brought
up to her and introduced--Count Rosek. Gyp did not like his face; there