Monsieur Harmost’s voice behind her said: 

“Before you go, monsieur, give me some explanation of this imbecility!”

Fiorsen spun round, shook his fist, and went out muttering.  They heard the front door slam.  Gyp turned abruptly to the window, and there, in her agitation, she noticed little outside things as one does in moments of bewildered anger.  Even into that back yard, summer had crept.  The leaves of the sumach-tree were glistening; in a three-cornered little patch of sunlight, a black cat with a blue ribbon round its neck was basking.  The voice of one hawking strawberries drifted melancholy from a side street.  She was conscious that Monsieur Harmost was standing very still, with a hand pressed to his mouth, and she felt a perfect passion of compunction and anger.  That kind and harmless old man—­to be so insulted!  This was indeed the culmination of all Gustav’s outrages!  She would never forgive him this!  For he had insulted her as well, beyond what pride or meekness could put up with.  She turned, and, running up to the old man, put both her hands into his.

“I’m so awfully sorry.  Good-bye, dear, dear Monsieur Harmost; I shall come on Friday!” And, before he could stop her, she was gone.

She dived into the traffic; but, just as she reached the pavement on the other side, felt her dress plucked and saw Fiorsen just behind her.  She shook herself free and walked swiftly on.  Was he going to make a scene in the street?  Again he caught her arm.  She stopped dead, faced round on him, and said, in an icy voice: 

“Please don’t make scenes in the street, and don’t follow me like this.  If you want to talk to me, you can—­at home.”

Then, very calmly, she turned and walked on.  But he was still following her, some paces off.  She did not quicken her steps, and to the first taxicab driver that passed she made a sign, and saying: 

“Bury Street—­quick!” got in.  She saw Fiorsen rush forward, too late to stop her.  He threw up his hand and stood still, his face deadly white under his broad-brimmed hat.  She was far too angry and upset to care.

From the moment she turned to the window at Monsieur Harmost’s, she had determined to go to her father’s.  She would not go back to Fiorsen; and the one thought that filled her mind was how to get Betty and her baby.  Nearly four!  Dad was almost sure to be at his club.  And leaning out, she said:  “No; Hyde Park Corner, please.”

The hall porter, who knew her, after calling to a page-boy:  “Major Winton—­sharp, now!” came specially out of his box to offer her a seat and The Times.