WHITEWASH
girl's running costume made famous by the statue, gambolled awkwardly in on the tips of her pink satin ballet slippers.
"Oh, gaze on me! oh, gaze on me!"
continued the improvisator. The gleesome sister executed a colt-like gyration and stood "at pose."
A discreet murmur greeted the picture. Around the imaginary pool, the more than imaginary Narcissus cavorted, smiling admiringly at the polished floor from which the rugs had been rolled back. The beat of the piano and the cadences of the poet dwindled in Victoria's ears as the absurdity of the dance took hold upon her. The time changed. Mr. Red changed the metre of his poem and announced "The Anger of the Gods." The dancer, who had certainly earned it, seemed, to do her justice, to be in trouble. "Narcissus transformed to a flower," melodiously warbled the poet, selecting another attitude, the music returning to its opening movement. Narcissus stood poised on one foot, seemingly unable to place the other.
"A flower upon its stem," observed Herr Balder.
