‘Daphne wing.’

The girl had never once been mentioned between her and Fiorsen since the night when he sat by her bed, begging forgiveness; she did not know whether he ever gave the little dancer and her trouble a thought, or even knew what had become of her.  But now that the time was getting near, Gyp felt more and more every day as if she must go down and see her.  She wrote to her father, who, after a dose of Harrogate with Aunt Rosamund, was back at Mildenham.  Winton answered that the nurse was there, and that there seemed to be a woman, presumably the mother, staying with her, but that he had not of course made direct inquiry.  Could not Gyp come down?  He was alone, and cubbing had begun.  It was like him to veil his longings under such dry statements.  But the thought of giving him pleasure, and of a gallop with hounds fortified intensely her feeling that she ought to go.  Now that baby was so well, and Fiorsen still not drinking, she might surely snatch this little holiday and satisfy her conscience about the girl.  Since the return from Cornwall, she had played for him in the music-room just as of old, and she chose the finish of a morning practice to say: 

“Gustav, I want to go to Mildenham this afternoon for a week.  Father’s lonely.”

He was putting away his violin, but she saw his neck grow red.

“To him?  No.  He will steal you as he stole the baby.  Let him have the baby if he likes.  Not you.  No.”

Gyp, who was standing by the piano, kept silence at this unexpected outburst, but revolt blazed up in her.  She never asked him anything; he should not refuse this.  He came up behind and put his arms round her.

“My Gyp, I want you here—­I am lonely, too.  Don’t go away.”

She tried to force his arms apart, but could not, and her anger grew.  She said coldly: 

“There’s another reason why I must go.”

“No, no!  No good reason—­to take you from me.”

“There is!  The girl who is just going to have your child is staying near Mildenham, and I want to see how she is.”

He let go of her then, and recoiling against the divan, sat down.  And Gyp thought:  ’I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to—­but it serves him right.’

He muttered, in a dull voice: 

“Oh, I hoped she was dead.”

“Yes!  For all you care, she might be.  I’m going, but you needn’t be afraid that I shan’t come back.  I shall be back to-day week; I promise.”

He looked at her fixedly.

“Yes.  You don’t break your promises; you will not break it.”  But, suddenly, he said again:  “Gyp, don’t go!”

“I must.”

He got up and caught her in his arms.

“Say you love me, then!”

But she could not.  It was one thing to put up with embraces, quite another to pretend that.  When at last he was gone, she sat smoothing her hair, staring before her with hard eyes, thinking:  “Here—­where I saw him with that girl!  What animals men are!”