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very long be sad, now burst out laughing and kissed her lover half a dozen times.

"What is it? Why are you laughing?"

"We have wasted so much time! Oh, how stupid we've been! All these months ... we could have been together! Were we mad?"

"You will make me happy now," Borek cried like a captive released, and laid his head for a moment upon her breast. He continued, kissing the palm of her hand: "I love you so much! We will both be happy together—just wait, and you'11 see. . . . And when we get back to Europe, perhaps we shall marry each other, and start a ballet of our own, and dance superbly. . . . Yes, it's quite likely that we shall get married!"

"Indeed?" Rosa teased, but her bright hair brushed his cheek, and her hand, the hand that he had kissed, was trembling.

He said presently: "You must go in now, and rest before the matinée."

"I could dance at this very moment," she said, "without resting for a moment."

"Never mind. You must rest, until it's cooler."

They kissed once more, and then went back, soberly enough, to the hotel. They had plenty of time; the matinée was not until five o'clock.

That evening Lina danced Barbe-Bleue with Borek. She danced adequately, as indeed she had danced during the entire tour; gracefully, competently, a little wearily, and quite without the Bacchic inspiration that had rendered her first night in London so unforgettable, so passionately beautiful. Dimly, uncomprehendingly, Borek had begun to realize that that particular first night had also been somehow in the nature of a farewell performance, a swan song. The farewell performance of the real Varsovina. He knew it to be the last tremendous