When Gyp was shown into this well-remembered room he was seated, his yellow fingers buried in his stiff grey hair, grieving over a pupil who had just gone out.  He did not immediately rise, but stared hard at Gyp.

“Ah,” he said, at last, “my little old friend!  She has come back!  Now that is good!” And, patting her hand he looked into her face, which had a warmth and brilliance rare to her in these days.  Then, making for the mantelpiece, he took therefrom a bunch of Parma violets, evidently brought by his last pupil, and thrust them under her nose.  “Take them, take them—­they were meant for me.  Now—­how much have you forgotten?  Come!” And, seizing her by the elbow, he almost forced her to the piano.  “Take off your furs.  Sit down!”

And while Gyp was taking off her coat, he fixed on her his prominent brown eyes that rolled easily in their slightly blood-shot whites, under squared eyelids and cliffs of brow.  She had on what Fiorsen called her “humming-bird” blouse—­dark blue, shot with peacock and old rose, and looked very warm and soft under her fur cap.  Monsieur Harmost’s stare seemed to drink her in; yet that stare was not unpleasant, having in it only the rather sad yearning of old men who love beauty and know that their time for seeing it is getting short.

“Play me the ‘Carnival,’” he said.  “We shall soon see!”

Gyp played.  Twice he nodded; once he tapped his fingers on his teeth, and showed her the whites of his eyes—­which meant:  “That will have to be very different!” And once he grunted.  When she had finished, he sat down beside her, took her hand in his, and, examining the fingers, began: 

“Yes, yes, soon again!  Spoiling yourself, playing for that fiddler!  Trop sympathique!  The back-bone, the back-bone—­we shall improve that.  Now, four hours a day for six weeks—­and we shall have something again.”

Gyp said softly: 

“I have a baby, Monsieur Harmost.”

Monsieur Harmost bounded.

“What!  That is a tragedy!” Gyp shook her head.  “You like it?  A baby!  Does it not squall?”

“Very little.”

“Mon Dieu!  Well, well, you are still as beautiful as ever.  That is something.  Now, what can you do with this baby?  Could you get rid of it a little?  This is serious.  This is a talent in danger.  A fiddler, and a baby!  C’est beaucoup!  C’est trop!”

Gyp smiled.  And Monsieur Harmost, whose exterior covered much sensibility, stroked her hand.

“You have grown up, my little friend,” he said gravely.  “Never mind; nothing is wasted.  But a baby!” And he chirruped his lips.  “Well; courage!  We shall do things yet!”

Gyp turned her head away to hide the quiver of her lips.  The scent of latakia tobacco that had soaked into things, and of old books and music, a dark smell, like Monsieur Harmost’s complexion; the old brown curtains, the sooty little back garden beyond, with its cat-runs, and its one stunted sumach tree; the dark-brown stare of Monsieur Harmost’s rolling eyes brought back that time of happiness, when she used to come week after week, full of gaiety and importance, and chatter away, basking in his brusque admiration and in music, all with the glamourous feeling that she was making him happy, and herself happy, and going to play very finely some day.