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of hers it was as though some one, turning a secret key in his heart, had opened there a door that had been long shut. And with the opening of that door there came a ray of blinding light. He was old, and desolate, and sick at heart because his work was done. Here was a child, thrown upon the world entirely through his own foolishness, a child in whom he had thought to discern signs of real talent. Whynot? Why not? It would be an experiment that might very easily fail, yet, if it failed, no one would be the wiser. And if it succeeded . . . ? His heart beat faster. He turned toward the fire, screening his face.

"My dear child . . . such nonsense. . . . You must put these ideas out of your head."

She repeated, clasping her hands: "Oh, please teach me! I'll work hard, so hard. And when I am a ballerina, earning money, then I can pay you back. And I can dance, I know I can, although I have never before been properly taught. Why, my mother, in London, was a ballet-girl "

Rosing interrupted.

"Was she also English, your mother?"

She frowned, trying to recollect such scraps of knowledge as came to her vaguely from a past already grown dim. She at length produced: "My mother was Jewish. I have heard my father say so."

"Ah!"

Rosing was pleased. He looked at her again. Of course, Jewish—that pointed vivid face and mobile mouth and fine dark eyes. Jewish and Cockney. A strange mixture, one no doubt temperamental and industrious, and that was very good indeed. He turned to Paulina.

"Your idea is fantastic, but you can stay here for a few days and we will see you dance. More than that I can not promise."

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