“Since you ask me, I thought you should know that Gustav is seeing a good deal of her.”

He had given the exact answer she had divined.

“Do you think I mind that?”

A flicker passed over his face.  He got up and said quietly: 

“I am glad that you do not.”

“Why glad?”

She, too, had risen.  Though he was little taller than herself, she was conscious suddenly of how thick and steely he was beneath his dapper garments, and of a kind of snaky will-power in his face.  Her heart beat faster.

He came toward her and said: 

“I am glad you understand that it is over with Gustav—­finished—­” He stopped dead, seeing at once that he had gone wrong, and not knowing quite where.  Gyp had simply smiled.  A flush coloured his cheeks, and he said: 

“He is a volcano soon extinguished.  You see, I know him.  Better you should know him, too.  Why do you smile?”

“Why is it better I should know?”

He went very pale, and said between his teeth: 

“That you may not waste your time; there is love waiting for you.”

But Gyp still smiled.

“Was it from love of me that you made him drunk last night?”

His lips quivered.

“Gyp!” Gyp turned.  But with the merest change of front, he had put himself between her and the door.  “You never loved him.  That is my excuse.  You have given him too much already—­more than he is worth.  Ah!  God!  I am tortured by you; I am possessed.”

He had gone white through and through like a flame, save for his smouldering eyes.  She was afraid, and because she was afraid, she stood her ground.  Should she make a dash for the door that opened into the little lane and escape that way?  Then suddenly he seemed to regain control; but she could feel that he was trying to break through her defences by the sheer intensity of his gaze—­by a kind of mesmerism, knowing that he had frightened her.

Under the strain of this duel of eyes, she felt herself beginning to sway, to get dizzy.  Whether or no he really moved his feet, he seemed coming closer inch by inch.  She had a horrible feeling—­as if his arms were already round her.

With an effort, she wrenched her gaze from his, and suddenly his crisp hair caught her eyes.  Surely—­surely it was curled with tongs!  A kind of spasm of amusement was set free in her heart, and, almost inaudibly, the words escaped her lips:  “Une technique merveilleuse!” His eyes wavered; he uttered a little gasp; his lips fell apart.  Gyp walked across the room and put her hand on the bell.  She had lost her fear.  Without a word, he turned, and went out into the garden.  She watched him cross the lawn.  Gone!  She had beaten him by the one thing not even violent passions can withstand—­ridicule, almost unconscious ridicule.  Then she gave way and pulled the bell with nervous violence.  The sight of the maid, in her trim black dress and spotless white apron, coming from the house completed her restoration.  Was it possible that she had really been frightened, nearly failing in that encounter, nearly dominated by that man—­in her own house, with her own maids down there at hand?  And she said quietly: