ly appreciative eyes swept Gyp
from top to toe. Year and a half! Quite so! Hard worker at his violin,
too? No doubt! Musicians always a little inclined to be immoderate--too
much sense of beauty--burn the candle at both ends! She must see to
that. She had been away, had she not--staying with her father? Yes.
But--no one like a wife for nursing. As to treatment? Well! One would
shove in a dash of what he would prescribe, night and morning. Perfect
quiet. No stimulant. A little cup of strong coffee without milk, if he
seemed low. Keep him in bed at present. No worry; no excitement.
Young man still. Plenty of vitality. As to herself, no undue anxiety.
To-morrow they would see whether a night nurse would be necessary.
Above all, no violin for a month, no alcohol--in every way the strictest
moderation! And with a last and friendliest wink, leaning heavily on
that word "moderation," he took out a stylographic pen, scratched on a
leaf of his note-book, shook Gyp's hand, smiled whimsically, buttoned
his upper waistcoat, and departed.

Gyp went back to her seat by the bed. Irony! She whose only desire was
to be let go free, was mainly responsible for his breakdown! But for
her, there would be nothing on his mind, for he would not be married!
Brooding morbidly, she asked herself--his drinking, debts, even the
girl--had she caused them, too? And when she tried to free him and
herself--this was the result! Was there something fatal about her
that must destroy the men she had to do with? She had made her father
unhappy, Monsieur Harmost--Rosek, and her husband! Even before she
married, how many had tried for her love, and gone away unhappy! And,
getting up, she went to a mirror and looked at herself long and sadly.

XX

Three days after her abortive attempt to break away, Gyp, with much
heart-searching, wrote to Daphne Wing, telling her of Fiorsen's illness,
and mentioning a cottage near Mildenham, where--if she liked to go--she
would be quite comfortable and safe from all curiosity, and finally
begging to be allowed to make good the losses from any broken
dance-contracts.

Next morning, she found Mr. Wagge with a tall, crape-banded hat in his
black-gloved hands, standing in the very centre of her drawing-room. He
was staring into the garden, as if he had been vouchsafed a vision
of that warm night when the moonlight shed its ghostly glamour on the
sunflowers, and his daughter had danced out there. She had a perfect
view of