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better to kiss her on both cheeks. He had never done such a thing before. He said, his voice trembling a little:

"My dear, I was right. For the first time I am sure. You will be a dancer, perhaps a great dancer. . . . We should both be very proud of each other."

Life, at that moment, swam in a mist of roses silverthreaded with the echoes of Rossini's song, gay and sweet and filled with laughter. She smiled, but her eyes were wet, for she was much moved.

Rosing said hastily, wrenching himself away from visions as glamourous as hers: "That is, if you work harder than you have done lately. Otherwise it is useless. And now be off with you."

Long after she had run out of the house into the cold mist outside he remained alone in his dressing-gown in the brilliant room, walking up and down before the fire, muttering to himself, his face creased with smiles, the tassel of his bonnet-grec most violently agitated. She was all that he had hoped—more than he had hoped. He thought that God had been very good to him.

That afternoon he sent for her, and instead of pestering her with Russian grammar, he pulled a great album from his shelves and began to talk to her of ghosts long dead.

"Here, Lina, is the great Noverre, he who revolutionized the history of dancing by his invention of the Ballet d'Action, his revival of the true art of pantomime. . . . Here is Vestris, who christened himself le dieu de la danse. . . . Gardel . . . created a sensation in 1772 by dancing without a mask. . . . And here, more beautiful than a goddess, the immortal Camargo, of whom Voltaire wrote, before whom princes bowed, Camargo, whose every movement was a poem. . . . Look, Lina, but for Camargo you would still dance stumbling, in long skirts, for she invented the dress that ballerinas wear to-day."

And then, closing the book, he talked to her of Russia,

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