She came down to breakfast, dark under the eyes and no whit advanced toward decision.  Neither of them mentioned their last night’s talk, and Gyp went back to her room to busy herself with dress, after those weeks away.  It was past noon when, at a muffled knock, she found Markey outside her door.

“Mr. Fiorsen, m’m.”

Gyp beckoned him in, and closed the door.

“In the hall, m’m—­slipped in when I answered the bell; short of shoving, I couldn’t keep him out.”

Gyp stood full half a minute before she said: 

“Is my father in?”

“No, m’m; the major’s gone to the fencin’-club.”

“What did you say?”

“Said I would see.  So far as I was aware, nobody was in.  Shall I have a try to shift him, m’m?”

With a faint smile Gyp shook her head.

“Say no one can see him.”

Markey’s woodcock eyes, under their thin, dark, twisting brows, fastened on her dolefully; he opened the door to go.  Fiorsen was standing there, and, with a quick movement, came in.  She saw Markey raise his arms as if to catch him round the waist, and said quietly: 

“Markey—­wait outside, please.”

When the door was shut, she retreated against her dressing-table and stood gazing at her husband, while her heart throbbed as if it would leap through its coverings.

He had grown a short beard, his cheeks seemed a little fatter, and his eyes surely more green; otherwise, he looked much as she remembered him.  And the first thought that passed through her was:  ’Why did I ever pity him?  He’ll never fret or drink himself to death—­he’s got enough vitality for twenty men.’

His face, which had worn a fixed, nervous smile, grew suddenly grave as her own, and his eyes roved round the room in the old half-fierce, half-furtive way.

“Well, Gyp,” he said, and his voice shook a little:  “At last!  Won’t you kiss me?”

The question seemed to Gyp idiotic; and suddenly she felt quite cool.

“If you want to speak to my father, you must come later; he’s out.”

Fiorsen gave one of his fierce shrugs.

“Is it likely?  Look, Gyp!  I returned from Russia yesterday.  I was a great success, made a lot of money out there.  Come back to me!  I will be good—­I swear it!  Now I have seen you again, I can’t be without you.  Ah, Gyp, come back to me!  And see how good I will be.  I will take you abroad, you and the bambina.  We will go to Rome—­anywhere you like—­live how you like.  Only come back to me!”

Gyp answered stonily: 

“You are talking nonsense.”

“Gyp, I swear to you I have not seen a woman—­not one fit to put beside you.  Oh, Gyp, be good to me once more.  This time I will not fail.  Try me!  Try me, my Gyp!”

Only at this moment of his pleading, whose tragic tones seemed to her both false and childish, did Gyp realize the strength of the new feeling in her heart.  And the more that feeling throbbed within her, the harder her face and her voice grew.  She said: