he same.' And, suddenly, it seemed queer
to her that she had not been, and still was not, disgusted. It was all
too deep for disgust, and somehow, too natural. She took this new
revelation of his unbridled ways without resentment. Besides, she had
long known of this taste of his--one cannot drink brandy and not betray
it.

She stole noiselessly from bed, noiselessly gathered up his boots and
clothes all tumbled on to a chair, and took them forth to the
dressing-room. There she held the garments up to the early light and
brushed them, then, noiseless, stole back to bed, with needle and thread
and her lace. No one must know; not even he must know. For the moment
she had forgotten that other thing so terrifically important. It came
back to her, very sudden, very sickening. So long as she could keep it
secret, no one should know that either--he least of all.

The morning passed as usual; but when she came to the music-room at noon,
she found that he had gone out. She was just sitting down to lunch when
Betty, with the broad smile which prevailed on her moon-face when someone
had tickled the right side of her, announced:

"Count Rosek."

Gyp got up, startled.

"Say that Mr. Fiorsen is not in, Betty. But--but ask if he will come and
have some lunch, and get a bottle of hock up, please."

In the few seconds before her visitor appeared, Gyp experienced the sort
of excitement one has entering a field where a bull is grazing.

But not even his severest critics could accuse Rosek of want of tact. He
had hoped to see Gustav, but it was charming of her to give him lunch--a
great delight!

He seemed to have put off, as if for her benefit, his corsets, and some,
at all events, of his offending looks--seemed simpler, more genuine. His
face was slightly browned, as if, for once, he had been taking his due of
air and sun. He talked without cynical submeanings, was most
appreciative of her "charming little house," and even showed some warmth
in his sayings about art and music. Gyp had never disliked him less. But
her instincts were on the watch. After lunch, they went out across the
garden to see the music-room, and he sat down at the piano. He had the
deep, caressing touch that lies in fingers of steel worked by a real
passion for tone. Gyp sat on the divan and listened. She was out of his
sight there; and she looked at him, wondering. He was playing Schumann's
Child Music. How could one who produced such fre