Fiorsen looked his worst, as ever, when first coming before an audience—­cold, furtive, defensive, defiant, half turned away, with those long fingers tightening the screws, touching the strings.  It seemed queer to think that only six hours ago she had stolen out of bed from beside him.  Wiesbaden!  No; this was not like Wiesbaden!  And when he played she had not the same emotions.  She had heard him now too often, knew too exactly how he produced those sounds; knew that their fire and sweetness and nobility sprang from fingers, ear, brain—­not from his soul.  Nor was it possible any longer to drift off on those currents of sound into new worlds, to hear bells at dawn, and the dews of evening as they fell, to feel the divinity of wind and sunlight.  The romance and ecstasy that at Wiesbaden had soaked her spirit came no more.  She was watching for the weak spots, the passages with which he had struggled and she had struggled; she was distracted by memories of petulance, black moods, and sudden caresses.  And then she caught his eye.  The look was like, yet how unlike, those looks at Wiesbaden.  It had the old love-hunger, but had lost the adoration, its spiritual essence.  And she thought:  ’Is it my fault, or is it only because he has me now to do what he likes with?’ It was all another disillusionment, perhaps the greatest yet.  But she kindled and flushed at the applause, and lost herself in pleasure at his success.  At the interval, she slipped out at once, for her first visit to the artist’s room, the mysterious enchantment of a peep behind the scenes.  He was coming down from his last recall; and at sight of her his look of bored contempt vanished; lifting her hand, he kissed it.  Gyp felt happier than she had since her marriage.  Her eyes shone, and she whispered: 

“Beautiful!”

He whispered back: 

“So!  Do you love me, Gyp?”

She nodded.  And at that moment she did, or thought so.

Then people began to come; amongst them her old music-master, Monsieur Harmost, grey and mahogany as ever, who, after a “Merveilleux,” “Tres fort” or two to Fiorsen, turned his back on him to talk to his old pupil.

So she had married Fiorsen—­dear, dear!  That was extraordinary, but extraordinary!  And what was it like, to be always with him—­a little funny—­not so?  And how was her music?  It would be spoiled now.  Ah, what a pity!  No?  She must come to him, then; yes, come again.  All the time he patted her arm, as if playing the piano, and his fingers, that had the touch of an angel, felt the firmness of her flesh, as though debating whether she were letting it deteriorate.  He seemed really to have missed “his little friend,” to be glad at seeing her again; and Gyp, who never could withstand appreciation, smiled at him.  More people came.  She saw Rosek talking to her husband, and the young alabaster girl standing silent, her lips still a little parted, gazing up at Fiorsen.  A perfect figure, though rather short; a dovelike face, whose exquisitely shaped, just-opened lips seemed to be demanding sugar-plums.  She could not be more than nineteen.  Who was she?