terity of his movements. He appeared to her as a splendid machine, powerful, untiring, and with him she feit once again the self-confidence that had almost been destroyed by so many inexperienced and nervous partners.
He rehearsed with Rosa, and their first effort was by no means unsuccessful.
"What do you think of her?" Lina wanted to know afterward.
"Of Rosa? She is a pretty dancer." He added, after a pause: "She needs experience."
"She is very young," Lina reminded him lightly.
A few days later, as they ate sandwiches together in the theater, Carlotta Rosa asked Borek impulsively:
"Why did you quarrel with Madame in America?"
"She boxed my ears, when we took a call together."
"Because," Borek explained patiently, "I had flowers sent me that night, and she had none."
"Ah!" She understood perfectly this ballet tragedy, and said again, shaking her head, "La Poverina!"
Borek said nothing, but lighted a cigarette.
A few days before the first night Paul inexplicably arrived from Paris, and Lina's heart sank. Paul was supposed to have become an artist, and she paid the rent of his studio in addition to giving him an adequate allowance; as far as she knew, he had never yet sold a picture. In this respect, he reminded her of an old forgotten friend, Martens the painter of Bruges. In this respect and in no other.
She greeted him coldly: "What are you doing here?"
"I have come over for your first night."
"Is there no other reason for your presence in London?"
"I have brought a score that might interest you."
He was still, in spite of many failures, convinced that he could one day write a ballet.