regain warmth.  In her rage, she retained enough sense of proportion to understand that he had done this, just as he had insulted Monsieur Harmost and her father—­and others—­in an ungovernable access of nerve-irritation; just as, perhaps, one day he would kill someone.  But to understand this did not lessen her feeling.  Her baby!  Such a tiny thing!  She hated him at last; and she lay thinking out the coldest, the cruellest, the most cutting things to say.  She had been too long-suffering.

But he did not come in that evening; and, too upset to eat or do anything, she went up to bed at ten o’clock.  When she had undressed, she stole across to the nursery; she had a longing to have the baby with her—­a feeling that to leave her was not safe.  She carried her off, still sleeping, and, locking her doors, got into bed.  Having warmed a nest with her body for the little creature, she laid it there; and then for a long time lay awake, expecting every minute to hear him return.  She fell asleep at last, and woke with a start.  There were vague noises down below or on the stairs.  It must be he!  She had left the light on in her room, and she leaned over to look at the baby’s face.  It was still sleeping, drawing its tiny breaths peacefully, little dog-shivers passing every now and then over its face.  Gyp, shaking back her dark plaits of hair, sat up by its side, straining her ears.

Yes; he was coming up, and, by the sounds, he was not sober.  She heard a loud creak, and then a thud, as if he had clutched at the banisters and fallen; she heard muttering, too, and the noise of boots dropped.  Swiftly the thought went through her:  ’If he were quite drunk, he would not have taken them off at all;—­nor if he were quite sober.  Does he know I’m back?’ Then came another creak, as if he were raising himself by support of the banisters, and then—­or was it fancy?—­she could hear him creeping and breathing behind the door.  Then—­no fancy this time—­he fumbled at the door and turned the handle.  In spite of his state, he must know that she was back, had noticed her travelling-coat or seen the telegram.  The handle was tried again, then, after a pause, the handle of the door between his room and hers was fiercely shaken.  She could hear his voice, too, as she knew it when he was flown with drink, thick, a little drawling.

“Gyp—­let me in—­Gyp!”

The blood burned up in her cheeks, and she thought:  ’No, my friend; you’re not coming in!’

After that, sounds were more confused, as if he were now at one door, now at the other; then creakings, as if on the stairs again, and after that, no sound at all.

For fully half an hour, Gyp continued to sit up, straining her ears.  Where was he?  What doing?  On her over-excited nerves, all sorts of possibilities came crowding.  He must have gone downstairs again.  In that half-drunken state, where would his baffled frenzies lead him?  And, suddenly, she thought that she smelled burning.  It went, and came again; she got up, crept to the door, noiselessly turned the key, and, pulling it open a few inches, sniffed.