“Yes; but I was in the country nearly all last summer.”

“He had a great success.  I shall take him back; it is best for his future.  What do you think of his playing?”

In spite of herself, for she did not like expanding to this sphinxlike little man, Gyp murmured: 

“Oh, simply wonderful, of course!”

He nodded, and then rather suddenly said, with a peculiar little smile: 

“May I introduce him?  Gustav—­Miss Winton!”

Gyp turned.  There he was, just behind her, bowing; and his eyes had a look of humble adoration which he made no attempt whatever to conceal.  Gyp saw another smile slide over the Pole’s lips; and she was alone in the bay window with Fiorsen.  The moment might well have fluttered a girl’s nerves after his recognition of her by the Schiller statue, after that episode of the flowers, and what she had heard of him.  But life had not yet touched either her nerves or spirit; she only felt amused and a little excited.  Close to, he had not so much that look of an animal behind bars, and he certainly was in his way a dandy, beautifully washed—­always an important thing—­and having some pleasant essence on his handkerchief or hair, of which Gyp would have disapproved if he had been English.  He wore a diamond ring also, which did not somehow seem bad form on that particular little finger.  His height, his broad cheek-bones, thick but not long hair, the hungry vitality of his face, figure, movements, annulled those evidences of femininity.  He was male enough, rather too male.  Speaking with a queer, crisp accent, he said: 

“Miss Winton, you are my audience here.  I play to you—­only to you.”

Gyp laughed.

“You laugh at me; but you need not.  I play for you because I admire you.  I admire you terribly.  If I sent you those flowers, it was not to be rude.  It was my gratitude for the pleasure of your face.”  His voice actually trembled.  And, looking down, Gyp answered: 

“Thank you.  It was very kind of you.  I want to thank you for your playing.  It is beautiful—­really beautiful!”

He made her another little bow.

“When I go back to London, will you come and hear me?”

“I should think any one would go to hear you, if they had the chance.”

He gave a short laugh.

“Bah!  Here, I do it for money; I hate this place.  It bores me—­bores me!  Was that your father sitting with you under the statue?”

Gyp nodded, suddenly grave.  She had not forgotten the slighting turn of his head.

He passed his hand over his face, as if to wipe off its expression.

“He is very English.  But you—­of no country—­you belong to all!”

Gyp made him an ironical little bow.

“No; I should not know your country—­you are neither of the North nor of the South.  You are just Woman, made to be adored.  I came here hoping to meet you; I am extremely happy.  Miss Winton, I am your very devoted servant.”