to her bedroom to get away from the servants' eyes, and went on
mechanically with a frock of little Gyp's she had begun on the fatal
morning Fiorsen had come back. Every other minute she stopped to listen
to sounds that never meant anything, went a hundred times to the window
to look at nothing. Betty, too, had come upstairs, and was in the
nursery opposite; Gyp could hear her moving about restlessly among her
household gods. Presently, those sounds ceased, and, peering into the
room, she saw the stout woman still in her bonnet, sitting on a trunk,
with her back turned, uttering heavy sighs. Gyp stole back into her own
room with a sick, trembling sensation. If--if her baby really could not
be recovered except by that sacrifice! If that cruel letter were the
last word, and she forced to decide between them! Which would she give
up? Which follow--her lover or her child?

She went to the window for air--the pain about her heart was dreadful.
And, leaning there against the shutter, she felt quite dizzy from the
violence of a struggle that refused coherent thought or feeling, and was
just a dumb pull of instincts, both so terribly strong--how terribly
strong she had not till then perceived.

Her eyes fell on the picture that reminded her of Bryan; it seemed now to
have no resemblance--none. He was much too real, and loved, and wanted.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, she had turned a deaf ear to his
pleading that she should go to him for ever. How funny! Would she not
rush to him now--go when and where he liked? Ah, if only she were back
in his arms! Never could she give him up--never! But then in her ears
sounded the cooing words, "Dear mum!" Her baby--that tiny thing--how
could she give her up, and never again hold close and kiss that round,
perfect little body, that grave little dark-eyed face?

The roar of London came in through the open window. So much life, so
many people--and not a soul could help! She left the window and went to
the cottage-piano she had there, out of Winton's way. But she only sat
with arms folded, looking at the keys. The song that girl had sung at
Fiorsen's concert--song of the broken heart--came back to her.

No, no; she couldn't--couldn't! It was to her lover she would cling.
And tears ran down her cheeks.

A cab had stopped below, but not till Betty came rushing in did she look
up.

XIV

When, trembling all over, she entered the dining-room, Fiorsen was
standin