Wagge, seated at a table, crying into her handkerchief.  At that very moment, too, a low moaning came from the room above.  Gyp recoiled; then, making up her mind, she went in and knocked at the room where the woman in green was sitting.  After fully half a minute, it was opened, and Mrs. Wagge stood there.  The nose and eyes and cheeks of that thinnish, acid face were red, and in her green dress, and with her greenish hair (for it was going grey and she put on it a yellow lotion smelling of cantharides), she seemed to Gyp just like one of those green apples that turn reddish so unnaturally in the sun.  She had rubbed over her face, which shone in streaks, and her handkerchief was still crumpled in her hand.  It was horrible to come, so fresh and glowing, into the presence of this poor woman, evidently in bitter sorrow.  And a desperate desire came over Gyp to fly.  It seemed dreadful for anyone connected with him who had caused this trouble to be coming here at all.  But she said as softly as she could: 

“Mrs. Wagge?  Please forgive me—­but is there any news?  I am—­It was I who got Daphne down here.”

The woman before her was evidently being torn this way and that, but at last she answered, with a sniff: 

“It—­it—­was born this morning—­dead.”  Gyp gasped.  To have gone through it all for that!  Every bit of mother-feeling in her rebelled and sorrowed; but her reason said:  Better so!  Much better!  And she murmured: 

“How is she?”

Mrs. Wagge answered, with profound dejection: 

“Bad—­very bad.  I don’t know I’m sure what to say—­my feelings are all anyhow, and that’s the truth.  It’s so dreadfully upsetting altogether.”

“Is my nurse with her?”

“Yes; she’s there.  She’s a very headstrong woman, but capable, I don’t deny.  Daisy’s very weak.  Oh, it is upsetting!  And now I suppose there’ll have to be a burial.  There really seems no end to it.  And all because of—­of that man.”  And Mrs. Wagge turned away again to cry into her handkerchief.

Feeling she could never say or do the right thing to the poor lady, Gyp stole out.  At the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated whether to go up or no.  At last, she mounted softly.  It must be in the front room that the bereaved girl was lying—­the girl who, but a year ago, had debated with such naive self-importance whether or not it was her duty to take a lover.  Gyp summoned courage to tap gently.  The economic agent opened the door an inch, but, seeing who it was, slipped her robust and handsome person through into the corridor.

“You, my dear!” she said in a whisper.  “That’s nice!”

“How is she?”

“Fairly well—­considering.  You know about it?”

“Yes; can I see her?”

“I hardly think so.  I can’t make her out.  She’s got no spirit, not an ounce.  She doesn’t want to get well, I believe.  It’s the man, I expect.”  And, looking at Gyp with her fine blue eyes, she asked:  “Is that it?  Is he tired of her?”