her father. He would--what would he not do? But she was always on her
guard, knowing that Rosek would not forgive her for that dart of
ridicule. His insinuations about Daphne Wing she put out of mind, as she
never could have if she had loved Fiorsen. She set up for herself the
idol of pride, and became its faithful worshipper. Only Winton, and
perhaps Betty, could tell she was not happy. Fiorsen's debts and
irresponsibility about money did not worry her much, for she paid
everything in the house--rent, wages, food, and her own dress--and had so
far made ends meet; and what he did outside the house she could not help.

So the summer wore on till concerts were over, and it was supposed to be
impossible to stay in London. But she dreaded going away. She wanted to
be left quiet in her little house. It was this which made her tell
Fiorsen her secret one night, after the theatre. He had begun to talk of
a holiday, sitting on the edge of the settee, with a glass in his hand
and a cigarette between his lips. His cheeks, white and hollow from too
much London, went a curious dull red; he got up and stared at her. Gyp
made an involuntary movement with her hands.

"You needn't look at me. It's true."

He put down glass and cigarette and began to tramp the room. And Gyp
stood with a little smile, not even watching him. Suddenly he clasped
his forehead and broke out:

"But I don't want it; I won't have it--spoiling my Gyp." Then quickly
going up to her with a scared face: "I don't want it; I'm afraid of it.
Don't have it."

In Gyp's heart came the same feeling as when he had stood there drunk,
against the wall--compassion, rather than contempt of his childishness.
And taking his hand she said:

"All right, Gustav. It shan't bother you. When I begin to get ugly,
I'll go away with Betty till it's over."

He went down on his knees.

"Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no! My beautiful Gyp!"

And Gyp sat like a sphinx, for fear that she too might let slip those
words: "Oh, no!"

The windows were open, and moths had come in. One had settled on the
hydrangea plant that filled the hearth. Gyp looked at the soft, white,
downy thing, whose head was like a tiny owl's against the bluish petals;
looked at the purple-grey tiles down there, and the stuff of her own
frock, in the shaded gleam of the lamps. And all her love of beauty
rebelled, called up by his: "Oh, no!" She would be unsightly soon, and
suffer pain, and perhaps