Winton was staggered.  With a glance at Gyp’s vanishing figure, he said curtly to Markey, “Where have you put this gentleman?” But the use of the word “this” was the only trace he showed of his emotions.  In that little journey across the hall he entertained many extravagant thoughts.  Arrived at the study, he inclined his head courteously enough, waiting for Fiorsen to speak.  The “fiddler,” still in his fur-lined coat, was twisting a squash hat in his hands.  In his own peculiar style he was impressive.  But why couldn’t he look you in the face; or, if he did, why did he seem about to eat you?

“You knew I was returned to London, Major Winton?”

Then Gyp had been seeing the fellow without letting him know!  The thought was chill and bitter to Winton.  He must not give her away, however, and he simply bowed.  He felt that his visitor was afraid of his frigid courtesy; and he did not mean to help him over that fear.  He could not, of course, realize that this ascendancy would not prevent Fiorsen from laughing at him behind his back and acting as if he did not exist.  No real contest, in fact, was possible between men moving on such different planes, neither having the slightest respect for the other’s standards or beliefs.

Fiorsen, who had begun to pace the room, stopped, and said with agitation: 

“Major Winton, your daughter is the most beautiful thing on earth.  I love her desperately.  I am a man with a future, though you may not think it.  I have what future I like in my art if only I can marry her.  I have a little money, too—­not much; but in my violin there is all the fortune she can want.”

Winton’s face expressed nothing but cold contempt.  That this fellow should take him for one who would consider money in connection with his daughter simply affronted him.

Fiorsen went on: 

“You do not like me—­that is clear.  I saw it the first moment.  You are an English gentleman”—­he pronounced the words with a sort of irony—­“I am nothing to you.  Yet, in my world, I am something.  I am not an adventurer.  Will you permit me to beg your daughter to be my wife?” He raised his hands that still held the hat; involuntarily they had assumed the attitude of prayer.

For a second, Winton realized that he was suffering.  That weakness went in a flash, and he said frigidly: 

“I am obliged to you, sir, for coming to me first.  You are in my house, and I don’t want to be discourteous, but I should be glad if you would be good enough to withdraw and take it that I shall certainly oppose your wish as best I can.”

The almost childish disappointment and trouble in Fiorsen’s face changed quickly to an expression fierce, furtive, mocking; and then shifted to despair.

“Major Winton, you have loved; you must have loved her mother.  I suffer!”

Winton, who had turned abruptly to the fire, faced round again.