has for one of less talent but
stronger will-power. He had for him, too, the feeling of a wayward child
for its nurse, mixed with the need that an artist, especially an
executant artist, feels for a connoisseur and patron with well-lined
pockets.

'Curse Paul!' he thought. 'He must know--he does know--that brandy of
his goes down like water. Trust him, he saw I was getting silly! He had
some game on. Where did I go after? How did I get home?' And again:
'Did I hurt Gyp?' If the servants had seen--that would be the worst;
that would upset her fearfully! And he laughed. Then he had a fresh
access of fear. He didn't know her, never knew what she was thinking or
feeling, never knew anything about her. And he thought angrily: 'That's
not fair! I don't hide myself from her. I am as free as nature; I let
her see everything. What did I do? That maid looked very queerly at me
this morning!' And suddenly he said to the driver: "Bury Street, St.
James's." He could find out, at all events, whether Gyp had been to her
father's. The thought of Winton ever afflicted him; and he changed his
mind several times before the cab reached that little street, but so
swiftly that he had not time to alter his instructions to the driver. A
light sweat broke out on his forehead while he was waiting for the door
to be opened.

"Mrs. Fiorsen here?"

"No, sir."

"Not been here this morning?"

"No, sir."

He shrugged away the thought that he ought to give some explanation of
his question, and got into the cab again, telling the man to drive to
Curzon Street. If she had not been to "that Aunt Rosamund" either it
would be all right. She had not. There was no one else she would go to.
And, with a sigh of relief, he began to feel hungry, having had no
breakfast. He would go to Rosek's, borrow the money to pay his cab, and
lunch there. But Rosek was not in. He would have to go home to get the
cab paid. The driver seemed to eye him queerly now, as though conceiving
doubts about the fare.

Going in under the trellis, Fiorsen passed a man coming out, who held in
his hand a long envelope and eyed him askance.

Gyp, who was sitting at her bureau, seemed to be adding up the
counterfoils in her cheque-book. She did not turn round, and Fiorsen
paused. How was she going to receive him?

"Is there any lunch?" he said.

She reached out and rang the bell. He felt sorry for himself. He had
been quite ready to take her in his a