Wing she put out of mind, as she never could have if she had loved Fiorsen.  She set up for herself the idol of pride, and became its faithful worshipper.  Only Winton, and perhaps Betty, could tell she was not happy.  Fiorsen’s debts and irresponsibility about money did not worry her much, for she paid everything in the house—­ rent, wages, food, and her own dress—­and had so far made ends meet; and what he did outside the house she could not help.

So the summer wore on till concerts were over, and it was supposed to be impossible to stay in London.  But she dreaded going away.  She wanted to be left quiet in her little house.  It was this which made her tell Fiorsen her secret one night, after the theatre.  He had begun to talk of a holiday, sitting on the edge of the settee, with a glass in his hand and a cigarette between his lips.  His cheeks, white and hollow from too much London, went a curious dull red; he got up and stared at her.  Gyp made an involuntary movement with her hands.

“You needn’t look at me.  It’s true.”

He put down glass and cigarette and began to tramp the room.  And Gyp stood with a little smile, not even watching him.  Suddenly he clasped his forehead and broke out: 

“But I don’t want it; I won’t have it—­spoiling my Gyp.”  Then quickly going up to her with a scared face:  “I don’t want it; I’m afraid of it.  Don’t have it.”

In Gyp’s heart came the same feeling as when he had stood there drunk, against the wall—­compassion, rather than contempt of his childishness.  And taking his hand she said: 

“All right, Gustav.  It shan’t bother you.  When I begin to get ugly, I’ll go away with Betty till it’s over.”

He went down on his knees.

“Oh, no!  Oh, no!  Oh, no!  My beautiful Gyp!”

And Gyp sat like a sphinx, for fear that she too might let slip those words:  “Oh, no!”

The windows were open, and moths had come in.  One had settled on the hydrangea plant that filled the hearth.  Gyp looked at the soft, white, downy thing, whose head was like a tiny owl’s against the bluish petals; looked at the purple-grey tiles down there, and the stuff of her own frock, in the shaded gleam of the lamps.  And all her love of beauty rebelled, called up by his:  “Oh, no!” She would be unsightly soon, and suffer pain, and perhaps die of it, as her own mother had died.  She set her teeth, listening to that grown-up child revolting against what he had brought on her, and touched his hand, protectingly.

It interested, even amused her this night and next day to watch his treatment of the disconcerting piece of knowledge.  For when at last he realized that he had to acquiesce in nature, he began, as she had known he would, to jib away from all reminder of it.  She was careful not to suggest that he should go away without her, knowing his perversity.  But when he proposed that she should come to Ostend with him and Rosek, she answered, after seeming deliberation, that she thought she had better not—­she would rather stay at home quite quietly; but he must certainly go and get a good holiday.