When she withdrew her hands at last, he had stopped.  Then she heard him coming, and feigned sleep.  But he did not spare even sleep.  She submitted to his kisses without a word, her heart hardening within her—­surely he smelled of brandy!  Next morning he seemed to have forgotten it all.  But Gyp had not.  She wanted badly to know what he had felt, where he had gone, but was too proud to ask.

She wrote twice to her father in the first week, but afterwards, except for a postcard now and then, she never could.  Why tell him what she was doing, in company of one whom he could not bear to think of?  Had he been right?  To confess that would hurt her pride too much.  But she began to long for London.  The thought of her little house was a green spot to dwell on.  When they were settled in, and could do what they liked without anxiety about people’s feelings, it would be all right perhaps.  When he could start again really working, and she helping him, all would be different.  Her new house, and so much to do; her new garden, and fruit-trees coming into blossom!  She would have dogs and cats, would ride when Dad was in town.  Aunt Rosamund would come, friends, evenings of music, dances still, perhaps—­he danced beautifully, and loved it, as she did.  And his concerts—­the elation of being identified with his success!  But, above all, the excitement of making her home as dainty as she could, with daring experiments in form and colour.  And yet, at heart she knew that to be already looking forward, banning the present, was a bad sign.

One thing, at all events, she enjoyed—­sailing.  They had blue days when even the March sun was warm, and there was just breeze enough.  He got on excellently well with the old salt whose boat they used, for he was at his best with simple folk, whose lingo he could understand about as much as they could understand his.

In those hours, Gyp had some real sensations of romance.  The sea was so blue, the rocks and wooded spurs of that Southern coast so dreamy in the bright land-haze.  Oblivious of “the old salt,” he would put his arm round her; out there, she could swallow down her sense of form, and be grateful for feeling nearer to him in spirit.  She made loyal efforts to understand him in these weeks that were bringing a certain disillusionment.  The elemental part of marriage was not the trouble; if she did not herself feel passion, she did not resent his.  When, after one of those embraces, his mouth curled with a little bitter smile, as if to say, “Yes, much you care for me,” she would feel compunctious and yet aggrieved.  But the trouble lay deeper—­the sense of an insuperable barrier; and always that deep, instinctive recoil from letting herself go.  She could not let herself be known, and she could not know him.  Why did his eyes often fix her with a stare that did not seem to see her?  What made him, in the midst of serious playing, break into some furious or desolate little tune, or drop his violin?  What gave him those long hours of dejection, following the maddest gaiety?  Above all, what dreams had he in those rare moments when music transformed his strange pale face?  Or was it a mere physical illusion—­had he any dreams?  “The heart of another is a dark forest”—­to all but the one who loves.