strictest
moderation! And with a last and friendliest wink, leaning heavily on
that word "moderation," he took out a stylographic pen, scratched on a
leaf of his note-book, shook Gyp's hand, smiled whimsically, buttoned his
upper waistcoat, and departed.

Gyp went back to her seat by the bed. Irony! She whose only desire was
to be let go free, was mainly responsible for his breakdown! But for
her, there would be nothing on his mind, for he would not be married!
Brooding morbidly, she asked herself--his drinking, debts, even the
girl--had she caused them, too? And when she tried to free him and
herself--this was the result! Was there something fatal about her that
must destroy the men she had to do with? She had made her father
unhappy, Monsieur Harmost--Rosek, and her husband! Even before she
married, how many had tried for her love, and gone away unhappy! And,
getting up, she went to a mirror and looked at herself long and sadly.

XX

Three days after her abortive attempt to break away, Gyp, with much
heart-searching, wrote to Daphne Wing, telling her of Fiorsen's illness,
and mentioning a cottage near Mildenham, where--if she liked to go--she
would be quite comfortable and safe from all curiosity, and finally
begging to be allowed to make good the losses from any broken
dance-contracts.

Next morning, she found Mr. Wagge with a tall, crape-banded hat in his
black-gloved hands, standing in the very centre of her drawing-room. He
was staring into the garden, as if he had been vouchsafed a vision of
that warm night when the moonlight shed its ghostly glamour on the
sunflowers, and his daughter had danced out there. She had a perfect view
of his thick red neck in its turndown collar, crossed by a black bow over
a shiny white shirt. And, holding out her hand, she said:

"How do you do, Mr. Wagge? It was kind of you to come."

Mr. Wagge turned. His pug face wore a downcast expression.

"I hope I see you well, ma'am. Pretty place you 'ave 'ere. I'm fond of
flowers myself. They've always been my 'obby."

"They're a great comfort in London, aren't they?"

"Ye-es; I should think you might grow the dahlia here." And having thus
obeyed the obscure instincts of savoir faire, satisfied some obscurer
desire to flatter, he went on: "My girl showed me your letter. I didn't
like to write; in such a delicate matter I'd rather be vivey vocey. Very
kind, in your position; I'm sure I appreciate it. I al