I told him about IT. What shall I do? What shall I do?"

His being her own husband seemed as nothing to Gyp at that moment. She
felt such pity and yet such violent revolt that any girl should want to
crawl back to a man who had spurned her. Unconsciously, she had drawn
herself up and pressed her lips together. The girl, who followed every
movement, said piteously:

"I don't seem to have any pride. I don't mind what he does to me, or
what he says, if only I can see him."

Gyp's revolt yielded to her pity. She said:

"How long before?"

"Three months."

Three months--and in this state of misery!

"I think I shall do something desperate. Now that I can't dance, and
THEY know, it's too awful! If I could see him, I wouldn't mind anything.
But I know--I know he'll never want me again. Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I wish I
was dead! I do!"

A heavy sigh escaped Gyp, and, bending suddenly, she kissed the girl's
forehead. Still that scent of orange blossom about her skin or hair,
as when she asked whether she ought to love or not; as when she came,
moth-like, from the tree-shade into the moonlight, spun, and fluttered,
with her shadow spinning and fluttering before her. Gyp turned away,
feeling that she must relieve the strain, and pointing to the bowl,
said:

"YOU put that there, I'm sure. It's beautiful."

The girl answered, with piteous eagerness:

"Oh, would you like it? Do take it. Count Rosek gave it me." She started
away from the door. "Oh, that's papa. He'll be coming in!"

Gyp heard a man clear his throat, and the rattle of an umbrella falling
into a stand; the sight of the girl wilting and shrinking against the
sideboard steadied her. Then the door opened, and Mr. Wagge entered.
Short and thick, in black frock coat and trousers, and a greyish beard,
he stared from one to the other. He looked what he was, an Englishman
and a chapelgoer, nourished on sherry and mutton, who could and did
make his own way in the world. His features, coloured, as from a deep
liverishness, were thick, like his body, and not ill-natured, except for
a sort of anger in his small, rather piggy grey eyes. He said in a
voice permanently gruff, but impregnated with a species of professional
ingratiation:

"Ye-es? Whom 'ave I--?"

"Mrs. Fiorsen."

"Ow!" The sound of his breathing could be heard distinctly; he twisted a
chair round and said:

"Take a seat, won't you?"

Gyp shook her head.

In Mr. Wagge's face a kind of deference seemed