them in properly at her practise. The strangeness of her surroundings, the forlorn aspect of the vast stage, at first perplexed her; it was not until she had achieved a technically perfect pirouette that she feit a confidence in any way equal to this violent frenzy of ambition. And then, with the dawning of confidence, came a glow of inspiration that seemed to burn up, like some ardent flame, her whole being, so that she danced not only with her body, but with her heart, her soul, her mind, her every nerve, thought and emotion. The evolutions of the Fairy, at once so graceful and so elusive, were exactly suited to the fragile quality that Rosing had long ago discerned in her dancing. That had always been a natural gift; technically, as an exponent of the classic school, she had made amazing strides under his tuition.
He sat in the stalls, rigid, upright, gnawing at his beard; once Carlo Villeneuve, the maitre de ballet, shot him a glance, charged with suspicion and inquiry but he ignored his old friend. When the dance was over he got up and walked slowly, with great ostentation, toward the nearest pass-door. He observed, looking slyly beneath his lashes, the group of maestros clustered close together, whispering excitedly to one another, quite ignoring the next dancer, who, with an appealing, artificial smile, was poised precariously on her pointes. Before he had gone very far Villeneuve ran after him.
"You're leaving, Rosing?"
"I must reclaim my pupil. The child's ignorant, and will assuredly lose herself in the coulisses."
And the Italian, with a crafty smile, beckoned him closer.
"Who is that girl, Rosing?"
"I've told you—my pupil. Varsovina. A young Russian trained in England."