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And the bird was of green and yellow with a red beak. On being turned out of the nursery with the assurance that it was "all right only a little faint," Fiorsen went down-stairs disconsolate. The atmosphere of this dark house where he was a stranger, an unwelcome stranger, was insupportable. He wanted nothing in it but Gyp, and Gyp had fainted at his touch. No wonder he felt miserable.
She had on what Fiorsen called her "humming-bird" blouse dark blue, shot with peacock and old rose, and looked very warm and soft under her fur cap. Monsieur Harmost's stare seemed to drink her in; yet that stare was not unpleasant, having in it only the rather sad yearning of old men who love beauty and know that their time for seeing it is getting short. "Play me the 'Carnival," he said.
Fiorsen you want to forget, isn't it?" "As if she were dead. Ah, let it all be as it was, Daphne! You have grown up; you are a woman, an artist, and you " Daphne Wing had turned her head toward the stairs. "That was the bell," she said. "Suppose it's my people? It's just their time! Oh, isn't that awkward?" Fiorsen dropped his grasp of her and recoiled against the wall.
One of my daughter's impresarios, I think. 'Appy to meet you, I'm sure." Fiorsen took a long breath, and bowed. Mr. Wagge's small piggy eyes had fixed themselves on the little trees. "She's got a nice little place here for her work quiet and unconventional. I hope you think well of her talent, sir? You might go further and fare worse, I believe." Again Fiorsen bowed.
Fiorsen came here, and, since then, I've seen him at Count Rosek's and and " "Yes; but don't trouble to tell me, please." Daphne Wing hurried on. "Of course, I'm quite mistress of myself now." Then, all at once, the uneasy woman-of-the-world mask dropped from her face and she seized Gyp's hand. "Oh, Mrs. Fiorsen, I shall never be like you!" With a little shiver, Gyp said: "I hope not."
But it was no new sensation, that of having entered by her own free will on a life which, for all effort, would not give her a feeling of anchorage or home. Of her own accord she had stepped into the cage! On the way to Rosek's rooms, she disguised from Fiorsen her headache and depression.
He played without accompaniment a little tune that seemed to twitch the heart. When he finished, this time she did not look up, but was conscious that he gave one impatient bow and walked off. That evening at dinner she said to Winton: "I heard a violinist to-day, Dad, the most wonderful playing Gustav Fiorsen. Is that Swedish, do you think or what?" Winton answered: "Very likely.
Queer that his route should take him past the very house to-day, after this new bereavement! Accursed luck that gout which had sent him to Wiesbaden, last September! Accursed luck that Gyp had ever set eyes on this fellow Fiorsen, with his fatal fiddle! Certainly not since Gyp had come to live with him, fifteen years ago, had he felt so forlorn and fit for nothing.
Gyp, who was sitting at her bureau, seemed to be adding up the counterfoils in her cheque-book. She did not turn round, and Fiorsen paused. How was she going to receive him? "Is there any lunch?" he said. She reached out and rang the bell. He felt sorry for himself. He had been quite ready to take her in his arms and say: "Forgive me, little Gyp; I'm sorry!" Betty answered the bell.
A hard, natural fact is needed to bring a yearning and bewildered spirit to knowledge of the truth. Disillusionment is not welcome to a woman's heart; the less welcome when it is disillusionment with self as much as with another. Her great dedication her scheme of life! She had been going to what? save Fiorsen from himself! It was laughable. She had only lost herself.
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