“Mine!”

Her heart beat fast then; but suddenly he laughed, slipped his arm about her, and danced her twice round the room.  He let her go demurely down the stairs in front of him, saying: 

“They shan’t see—­my Gyp.  Oh, they shan’t see!  We are old married people, tired of each other—­very!”

At dinner it amused him at first—­her too, a little—­to keep up this farce of indifference.  But every now and then he turned and stared at some inoffensive visitor who was taking interest in them, with such fierce and genuine contempt that Gyp took alarm; whereon he laughed.  When she had drunk a little wine and he had drunk a good deal, the farce of indifference came to its end.  He talked at a great rate now, slying nicknaming the waiters and mimicking the people around—­happy thrusts that made her smile but shiver a little, lest they should be heard or seen.  Their heads were close together across the little table.  They went out into the lounge.  Coffee came, and he wanted her to smoke with him.  She had never smoked in a public room.  But it seemed stiff and “missish” to refuse—­she must do now as his world did.  And it was another little thing; she wanted little things, all the time wanted them.  She drew back a window-curtain, and they stood there side by side.  The sea was deep blue beneath bright stars, and the moon shone through a ragged pine-tree on a little headland.  Though she stood five feet six in her shoes, she was only up to his mouth.  He sighed and said:  “Beautiful night, my Gyp!” And suddenly it struck her that she knew nothing of what was in him, and yet he was her husband!  “Husband”—­funny word, not pretty!  She felt as a child opening the door of a dark room, and, clutching his arm, said: 

“Look!  There’s a sailing-boat.  What’s it doing out there at night?” Another little thing!  Any little thing!

Presently he said: 

“Come up-stairs!  I’ll play to you.”

Up in their sitting-room was a piano, but—­not possible; to-morrow they would have to get another.  To-morrow!  The fire was hot, and he took off his coat to play.  In one of his shirt-sleeves there was a rent.  She thought, with a sort of triumph:  ‘I shall mend that!’ It was something definite, actual—­a little thing.  There were lilies in the room that gave a strong, sweet scent.  He brought them up to her to sniff, and, while she was sniffing, stooped suddenly and kissed her neck.  She shut her eyes with a shiver.  He took the flowers away at once, and when she opened her eyes again, his violin was at his shoulder.  For a whole hour he played, and Gyp, in her cream-coloured frock, lay back, listening.  She was tired, not sleepy.  It would have been nice to have been sleepy.  Her mouth had its little sad tuck or dimple at the corner; her eyes were deep and dark—­a cloudy child.  His gaze never left her face; he played and played, and his own fitful face grew clouded.  At last he put away the violin, and said: