ed you."

Then, seeming to grow conscious of Winton's eyes fixed so intently on
her, she became confused, swallowed hastily, and said:

"Oh, isn't it lovely here--like the country! I'm afraid I must go; it's
my practice-time. It's so important for me not to miss any now, isn't
it?" And she rose.

Winton got up, too. Gyp saw the girl's eyes, lighting on his rigid
hand, grow round and rounder; and from her, walking past the side of the
house, the careful voice floated back:

"Oh, I do hope--" But what, could not be heard.

Sinking back in her chair, Gyp sat motionless. Bees were murmurous among
her flowers, pigeons murmurous among the trees; the sunlight warmed her
knees, and her stretched-out feet through the openwork of her stockings.
The maid's laughter, the delicious growling of the puppies at play in
the kitchen came drifting down the garden, with the distant cry of a
milkman up the road. All was very peaceful. But in her heart were such
curious, baffled emotions, such strange, tangled feelings. This moment
of enlightenment regarding the measure of her husband's frankness came
close on the heels of the moment fate had chosen for another revelation,
for clinching within her a fear felt for weeks past. She had said to
Winton that she did not want to have a child. In those conscious that
their birth has caused death or even too great suffering, there is
sometimes this hostile instinct. She had not even the consolation that
Fiorsen wanted children; she knew that he did not. And now she was sure
one was coming. But it was more than that. She had not reached, and
knew she could not reach, that point of spirit-union which alone makes
marriage sacred, and the sacrifices demanded by motherhood a joy. She
was fairly caught in the web of her foolish and presumptuous mistake! So
few months of marriage--and so sure that it was a failure, so hopeless
for the future! In the light of this new certainty, it was terrifying.
A hard, natural fact is needed to bring a yearning and bewildered spirit
to knowledge of the truth. Disillusionment is not welcome to a woman's
heart; the less welcome when it is disillusionment with self as much
as with another. Her great dedication--her scheme of life! She had been
going to--what?--save Fiorsen from himself! It was laughable. She had
only lost herself. Already she felt in prison, and by a child would be
all the more bound. To some women, the knowledge that a thing must be
brings assuagement