She noticed first what clothes he had on—­his newest suit, dark grey, with little lighter lines—­she had chosen it herself; that his tie was in a bow, not a sailor’s knot, and his hair brighter than usual—­as always just after being cut; and surely the hair was growing down again in front of his ears.  Then, gratefully, almost with emotion, she realized that his lips were quivering, his whole face quivering.  He came in on tiptoe, stood looking at her a minute, then crossed very swiftly to the bed, very swiftly knelt down, and, taking her hand, turned it over and put his face to it.  The bristles of his moustache tickled her palm; his nose flattened itself against her fingers, and his lips kept murmuring words into the hand, with the moist warm touch of his lips.  Gyp knew he was burying there all his remorse, perhaps the excesses he had committed while she had been away from him, burying the fears he had felt, and the emotion at seeing her so white and still.  She felt that in a minute he would raise a quite different face.  And it flashed through her:  “If I loved him I wouldn’t mind what he did—­ever!  Why don’t I love him?  There’s something loveable.  Why don’t I?”

He did raise his face; his eyes lighted on the baby, and he grinned.

“Look at this!” he said.  “Is it possible?  Oh, my Gyp, what a funny one!  Oh, oh, oh!” He went off into an ecstasy of smothered laughter; then his face grew grave, and slowly puckered into a sort of comic disgust.  Gyp too had seen the humours of her baby, of its queer little reddish pudge of a face, of its twenty-seven black hairs, and the dribble at its almost invisible mouth; but she had also seen it as a miracle; she had felt it, and there surged up from her all the old revolt and more against his lack of consideration.  It was not a funny one—­her baby!  It was not ugly!  Or, if it were, she was not fit to be told of it.  Her arm tightened round the warm bundled thing against her.  Fiorsen put his finger out and touched its cheek.

“It is real—­so it is.  Mademoiselle Fiorsen.  Tk, tk!”

The baby stirred.  And Gyp thought:  ’If I loved I wouldn’t even mind his laughing at my baby.  It would be different.’

“Don’t wake her!” she whispered.  She felt his eyes on her, knew that his interest in the baby had ceased as suddenly as it came, that he was thinking, “How long before I have you in my arms again?” He touched her hair.  And, suddenly, she had a fainting, sinking sensation that she had never yet known.  When she opened her eyes again, the economic agent was holding something beneath her nose and making sounds that seemed to be the words:  “Well, I am a d—­d fool!” repeatedly expressed.  Fiorsen was gone.

Seeing Gyp’s eyes once more open, the nurse withdrew the ammonia, replaced the baby, and saying:  “Now go to sleep!” withdrew behind the screen.  Like all robust personalities, she visited on others her vexations with herself.  But Gyp did not go to sleep; she gazed now at her sleeping baby, now at the pattern of the wall-paper, trying mechanically to find the bird caught at intervals amongst its brown-and-green foliage—­one bird in each alternate square of the pattern, so that there was always a bird in the centre of four other birds.  And the bird was of green and yellow with a red beak.