Going in under the trellis, Fiorsen passed a man coming out, who held in his hand a long envelope and eyed him askance.

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.

“Please bring up some lunch for Mr. Fiorsen.”

He heard the stout woman sniff as she went out.  She was a part of his ostracism.  And, with sudden rage, he said: 

“What do you want for a husband—­a bourgeois who would die if he missed his lunch?”

Gyp turned round to him and held out her cheque-book.

“I don’t in the least mind about meals; but I do about this.”  He read on the counterfoil: 

“Messrs. Travers & Sanborn, Tailors, Account rendered:  L54 35s. 7d.”  “Are there many of these, Gustav?”

Fiorsen had turned the peculiar white that marked deep injury to his sell-esteem.  He said violently: 

“Well, what of that?  A bill!  Did you pay it?  You have no business to pay my bills.”

“The man said if it wasn’t paid this time, he’d sue you.”  Her lips quivered.  “I think owing money is horrible.  It’s undignified.  Are there many others?  Please tell me!”

“I shall not tell you.  What is it to you?”

“It is a lot to me.  I have to keep this house and pay the maids and everything, and I want to know how I stand.  I am not going to make debts.  That’s hateful.”

Her face had a hardness that he did not know.  He perceived dimly that she was different from the Gyp of this hour yesterday—­the last time when, in possession of his senses, he had seen or spoken to her.  The novelty of her revolt stirred him in strange ways, wounded his self-conceit, inspired a curious fear, and yet excited his senses.  He came up to her, said softly: 

“Money!  Curse money!  Kiss me!” With a certain amazement at the sheer distaste in her face, he heard her say: 

“It’s childish to curse money.  I will spend all the income I have; but I will not spend more, and I will not ask Dad.”

He flung himself down in a chair.

“Ho!  Ho!  Virtue!”

“No—­pride.”

He said gloomily: 

“So you don’t believe in me.  You don’t believe I can earn as much as I want—­more than you have—­any time?  You never have believed in me.”

“I think you earn now as much as you are ever likely to earn.”

“That is what you think!  I don’t want money—­your money!  I can live on nothing, any time.  I have done it—­often.”

“Hssh!”

He looked round and saw the maid in the doorway.