urs she could spare. She went to him twice a
week, determining to get on, but uneasy at the expense, for monetary
conditions were ever more embarrassed. At home, she practised steadily
and worked hard at composition. She finished several songs and studies
during the spring and summer, and left still more unfinished. Monsieur
Harmost was tolerant of these efforts, seeming to know that harsh
criticism or disapproval would cut her impulse down, as frost cuts
the life of flowers. Besides, there was always something fresh and
individual in her things. He asked her one day:

"What does your husband think of these?"

Gyp was silent a moment.

"I don't show them to him."

She never had; she instinctively kept back the knowledge that she
composed, dreading his ruthlessness when anything grated on his nerves,
and knowing that a breath of mockery would wither her belief in herself,
frail enough plant already. The only person, besides her master, to
whom she confided her efforts was--strangely enough--Rosek. But he had
surprised her one day copying out some music, and said at once: "I knew.
I was certain you composed. Ah, do play it to me! I am sure you have
talent." The warmth with which he praised that little "caprice" was
surely genuine; and she felt so grateful that she even played him
others, and then a song for him to sing. From that day, he no longer
seemed to her odious; she even began to have for him a certain
friendliness, to be a little sorry, watching him, pale, trim, and
sphinx-like, in her drawing-room or garden, getting no nearer to the
fulfilment of his desire. He had never again made love to her, but
she knew that at the least sign he would. His face and his invincible
patience made him pathetic to her. Women such as Gyp cannot actively
dislike those who admire them greatly. She consulted him about Fiorsen's
debts. There were hundreds of pounds owing, it seemed, and, in addition,
much to Rosek himself. The thought of these debts weighed unbearably on
her. Why did he, HOW did he get into debt like this? What became of the
money he earned? His fees, this summer, were good enough. There was such
a feeling of degradation about debt. It was, somehow, so underbred to
owe money to all sorts of people. Was it on that girl, on other women,
that he spent it all? Or was it simply that his nature had holes in
every pocket?

Watching Fiorsen closely, that spring and early summer, she was
conscious of a change, a sort of l