“If that is all you came to say—­please go.  I will never come back to you.  Once for all, understand, please.”

The silence in which he received her words, and his expression, impressed her far more than his appeal; with one of his stealthy movements he came quite close, and, putting his face forward till it almost touched her, said: 

“You are my wife.  I want you back.  I must have you back.  If you do not come, I will kill either you or myself.”

And suddenly she felt his arms knotted behind her back, crushing her to him.  She stilled a scream; then, very swiftly, took a resolve, and, rigid in his arms, said: 

“Let go; you hurt me.  Sit down quietly.  I will tell you something.”

The tone of her voice made him loosen his grasp and crane back to see her face.  Gyp detached his arms from her completely, sat down on an old oak chest, and motioned him to the window-seat.  Her heart thumped pitifully; cold waves of almost physical sickness passed through and through her.  She had smelt brandy in his breath when he was close to her.  It was like being in the cage of a wild beast; it was like being with a madman!  The remembrance of him with his fingers stretched out like claws above her baby was so vivid at that moment that she could scarcely see him as he was, sitting there quietly, waiting for what she was going to say.  And fixing her eyes on him, she said softly: 

“You say you love me, Gustav.  I tried to love you, too, but I never could—­never from the first.  I tried very hard.  Surely you care what a woman feels, even if she happens to be your wife.”

She could see his face quiver; and she went on: 

“When I found I couldn’t love you, I felt I had no right over you.  I didn’t stand on my rights.  Did I?”

Again his face quivered, and again she hurried on: 

“But you wouldn’t expect me to go all through my life without ever feeling love—­you who’ve felt it so many times?” Then, clasping her hands tight, with a sort of wonder at herself, she murmured:  “I am in love.  I’ve given myself.”

He made a queer, whining sound, covering his face.  And the beggar’s tag:  “‘Ave a feelin’ ‘eart, gentleman—­’ave a feelin’ ’eart!” passed idiotically through Gyp’s mind.  Would he get up and strangle her?  Should she dash to the door—­escape?  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.  For a moment, something had checked his jealous rage.  But if on this shock he began to drink, what might not happen?  He had said something wild.  And she shuddered.  But what right had he to feel jealousy and rage against her?  What right?  She got up and went to the glass, trembling, mechanically tidying her hair.  Miraculous that she had come through unscathed!