could understand his.

In those hours, Gyp had some real sensations of romance. The sea was so
blue, the rocks and wooded spurs of that Southern coast so dreamy in the
bright land-haze. Oblivious of "the old salt," he would put his arm
round her; out there, she could swallow down her sense of form, and be
grateful for feeling nearer to him in spirit. She made loyal efforts to
understand him in these weeks that were bringing a certain
disillusionment. The elemental part of marriage was not the trouble; if
she did not herself feel passion, she did not resent his. When, after
one of those embraces, his mouth curled with a little bitter smile, as if
to say, "Yes, much you care for me," she would feel compunctious and yet
aggrieved. But the trouble lay deeper--the sense of an insuperable
barrier; and always that deep, instinctive recoil from letting herself
go. She could not let herself be known, and she could not know him. Why
did his eyes often fix her with a stare that did not seem to see her?
What made him, in the midst of serious playing, break into some furious
or desolate little tune, or drop his violin? What gave him those long
hours of dejection, following the maddest gaiety? Above all, what dreams
had he in those rare moments when music transformed his strange pale
face? Or was it a mere physical illusion--had he any dreams? "The heart
of another is a dark forest"--to all but the one who loves.

One morning, he held up a letter.

"Ah, ha! Paul Rosek went to see our house. 'A pretty dove's nest!' he
calls it."

The memory of the Pole's sphinxlike, sweetish face, and eyes that seemed
to know so many secrets, always affected Gyp unpleasantly. She said
quietly:

"Why do you like him, Gustav?"

"Like him? Oh, he is useful. A good judge of music, and--many things."

"I think he is hateful."

Fiorsen laughed.

"Hateful? Why hateful, my Gyp? He is a good friend. And he admires
you--oh, he admires you very much! He has success with women. He always
says, 'J'ai une technique merveilleuse pour seduire une femme'"

Gyp laughed.

"Ugh! He's like a toad, I think."

"Ah, I shall tell him that! He will be flattered."

"If you do; if you give me away--I--"

He jumped up and caught her in his arms; his face was so comically
compunctious that she calmed down at once. She thought over her words
afterwards and regretted them. All the same, Rosek was a sneak and a
cold sensualist, she was sure.