tstretched hands till she could
feel their knuckles against her. Had he gone mad? Would he strangle her?
But her eyes never moved from his, and his began to waver; his hands
dropped, and, with a kind of moan, he made for the door.

Monsieur Harmost's voice behind her said:

"Before you go, monsieur, give me some explanation of this imbecility!"

Fiorsen spun round, shook his fist, and went out muttering. They heard
the front door slam. Gyp turned abruptly to the window, and there, in
her agitation, she noticed little outside things as one does in moments
of bewildered anger. Even into that back yard, summer had crept. The
leaves of the sumach-tree were glistening; in a three-cornered little
patch of sunlight, a black cat with a blue ribbon round its neck was
basking. The voice of one hawking strawberries drifted melancholy from
a side street. She was conscious that Monsieur Harmost was standing very
still, with a hand pressed to his mouth, and she felt a perfect passion
of compunction and anger. That kind and harmless old man--to be so
insulted! This was indeed the culmination of all Gustav's outrages! She
would never forgive him this! For he had insulted her as well, beyond
what pride or meekness could put up with. She turned, and, running up to
the old man, put both her hands into his.

"I'm so awfully sorry. Good-bye, dear, dear Monsieur Harmost; I shall
come on Friday!" And, before he could stop her, she was gone.

She dived into the traffic; but, just as she reached the pavement on the
other side, felt her dress plucked and saw Fiorsen just behind her. She
shook herself free and walked swiftly on. Was he going to make a scene
in the street? Again he caught her arm. She stopped dead, faced round on
him, and said, in an icy voice:

"Please don't make scenes in the street, and don't follow me like this.
If you want to talk to me, you can--at home."

Then, very calmly, she turned and walked on. But he was still following
her, some paces off. She did not quicken her steps, and to the first
taxicab driver that passed she made a sign, and saying:

"Bury Street--quick!" got in. She saw Fiorsen rush forward, too late to
stop her. He threw up his hand and stood still, his face deadly white
under his broad-brimmed hat. She was far too angry and upset to care.

From the moment she turned to the window at Monsieur Harmost's, she had
determined to go to her father's. She would not go back to Fiorsen; and
the one thought