nd arrow in his hands,
was gazing up at her. He turned it over; on the back was written in a
pointed, scriggly hand, "To my little friend.--E. H." Fiorsen drew smoke
deep down into his lungs, expelled it slowly, and went to the piano. He
opened it and began to play, staring vacantly before him, the cigarette
burned nearly to his lips. He went on, scarcely knowing what he played.
At last he stopped, and sat dejected. A great artist? Often, nowadays,
he did not care if he never touched a violin again. Tired of standing
up before a sea of dull faces, seeing the blockheads knock their
silly hands one against the other! Sick of the sameness of it all!
Besides--besides, were his powers beginning to fail? What was happening
to him of late?

He got up, went into the dining-room, and drank some brandy. Gyp could
not bear his drinking. Well, she shouldn't be out so much--taking
music-lessons. Music-lessons! Nearly three o'clock. If he went for once
and saw what she really did--Went, and offered her his escort home! An
attention. It might please her. Better, anyway, than waiting here until
she chose to come in with her face all closed up. He drank a little more
brandy--ever so little--took his hat and went. Not far to walk, but
the sun was hot, and he reached the house feeling rather dizzy. A
maid-servant opened the door to him.

"I am Mr. Fiorsen. Mrs. Fiorsen here?"

"Yes, sir; will you wait?"

Why did she look at him like that? Ugly girl! How hateful ugly people
were! When she was gone, he reopened the door of the waiting-room, and
listened.

Chopin! The polonaise in A flat. Good! Could that be Gyp? Very good! He
moved out, down the passage, drawn on by her playing, and softly turned
the handle. The music stopped. He went in.

When Winton had left him, an hour and a half later that afternoon,
Fiorsen continued to stand at the front door, swaying his body to and
fro. The brandy-nurtured burst of jealousy which had made him insult his
wife and old Monsieur Harmost had died suddenly when Gyp turned on him
in the street and spoke in that icy voice; since then he had felt fear,
increasing every minute. Would she forgive? To one who always acted on
the impulse of the moment, so that he rarely knew afterward exactly what
he had done, or whom hurt, Gyp's self-control had ever been mysterious
and a little frightening. Where had she gone? Why did she not come in?
Anxiety is like a ball that rolls down-hill, gathering momentum. S