United States or Saint Kitts and Nevis ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Ah, well, she was better off than his own loved one had been. One must not go ahead of trouble, or cry over spilled milk! Gyp had a wakeful night. The question she herself had raised, of telling Fiorsen, kept her thoughts in turmoil. Was he likely to divorce her if she did?
And not a sou thrown down! With an uneasy feeling that he had been involved in something that he did not understand, the lame, dark fiddler limped his way round the nearest corner, and for two streets at least did not stop. Then, counting the silver Fiorsen had put into his hand and carefully examining his fiddle, he used the word, "Bigre!" and started for home. Gyp hardly slept at all.
But even for him, Fiorsen had at once the contempt and fear that a man naturally uncontrolled and yet of greater scope has for one of less talent but stronger will-power. He had for him, too, the feeling of a wayward child for its nurse, mixed with the need that an artist, especially an executant artist, feels for a connoisseur and patron with well-lined pockets. 'Curse Paul! he thought.
Having settled that she would not admit failure, and clenched her teeth on the knowledge that she was going to have a child, she went on keeping things sealed up even from Winton. To Fiorsen, she managed to behave as usual, making material life easy and pleasant for him playing for him, feeding him well, indulging his amorousness. It did not matter; she loved no one else.
For a long, miserable moment, she watched him swaying on the window-seat, with his face covered. Then, without looking at her, he crammed a clenched hand up against his mouth, and rushed out. Through the open door, Gyp had a glimpse of Markey's motionless figure, coming to life as Fiorsen passed. She drew a long breath, locked the door, and lay down on her bed. Her heart beat dreadfully.
Fiorsen can't appreciate his playing, of course." And this most discreet remark caused Aunt Rosamund, avid in a well-bred way of music, to omit mention of the intruder when writing to her brother. The next two weeks he came almost every day, always bringing his violin, Gyp playing his accompaniments, and though his hungry stare sometimes made her feel hot, she would have missed it.
Running up for the week-end, three days later, he was relieved to find her decidedly perked-up, and left her again with the easier heart. It was on the day after he went back to Mildenham that she received a letter from Fiorsen, forwarded from Bury Street. He was it said just returning to London; he had not forgotten any look she had ever given him, or any word she had spoken.
At the other end of the world for all she knew. She came down to breakfast, dark under the eyes and no whit advanced toward decision. Neither of them mentioned their last night's talk, and Gyp went back to her room to busy herself with dress, after those weeks away. It was past noon when, at a muffled knock, she found Markey outside her door. "Mr. Fiorsen, m'm."
During the first week, his letters had a certain equanimity; in the second week they became ardent; in the third, they were fitful now beginning to look forward, now moody and dejected; and they were shorter. During this third week Aunt Rosamund joined them. The good lady had become a staunch supporter of Gyp's new existence, which, in her view, served Fiorsen right.
The house was invisible from the music-room; and, spurred on by thought that, until Fiorsen knew she was back, those two might be there in each other's arms any moment of the day or night, Gyp wrote that evening: "DEAR GUSTAV, We are back. What else in the world could she say? He would not get it till he woke about eleven.
Word Of The Day