onder at their hardihood
in showing themselves. It wasn't fair that one must become unsightly,
offensive to the eye, in order to bring life into the world. Some women
seemed proud to be like that. How was that possible? She would never
dare to show herself in the days coming.

She finished dressing and went downstairs. It was nearly eight, and
Fiorsen had not come in. When the gong was struck, she turned from the
window with a sigh, and went in to dinner. That sigh had been relief.
She ate her dinner with the two pups beside her, sent them off, and sat
down at her piano. She played Chopin--studies, waltzes, mazurkas,
preludes, a polonaise or two. And Betty, who had a weakness for that
composer, sat on a chair by the door which partitioned off the back
premises, having opened it a little. She wished she could go and take a
peep at her "pretty" in her white frock, with the candle-flames on each
side, and those lovely lilies in the vase close by, smelling beautiful.
And one of the maids coming too near, she shooed her angrily away.

It grew late. The tray had been brought up; the maids had gone to bed.
Gyp had long stopped playing, had turned out, ready to go up, and, by the
French window, stood gazing out into the dark. How warm it was--warm
enough to draw forth the scent of the jessamine along the garden wall!
Not a star. There always seemed so few stars in London. A sound made
her swing round. Something tall was over there in the darkness, by the
open door. She heard a sigh, and called out, frightened:

"Is that you, Gustav?"

He spoke some words that she could not understand. Shutting the window
quickly, she went toward him. Light from the hall lit up one side of his
face and figure. He was pale; his eyes shone strangely; his sleeve was
all white. He said thickly:

"Little ghost!" and then some words that must be Swedish. It was the
first time Gyp had ever come to close quarters with drunkenness. And her
thought was simply: 'How awful if anybody were to see--how awful!' She
made a rush to get into the hall and lock the door leading to the back
regions, but he caught her frock, ripping the lace from her neck, and his
entangled fingers clutched her shoulder. She stopped dead, fearing to
make a noise or pull him over, and his other hand clutched her other
shoulder, so that he stood steadying himself by her. Why was she not
shocked, smitten to the ground with grief and shame and rage? She only