She could not let herself be known, and she could not know him. Why
did his eyes often fix her with a stare that did not seem to see her?
What made him, in the midst of serious playing, break into some furious
or desolate little tune, or drop his violin? What gave him those long
hours of dejection, following the maddest gaiety? Above all, what dreams
had he in those rare moments when music transformed his strange pale
face? Or was it a mere physical illusion--had he any dreams? "The heart
of another is a dark forest"--to all but the one who loves.
One morning, he held up a letter.
"Ah, ha! Paul Rosek went to see our house. 'A pretty dove's nest!' he
calls it."
The memory of the Pole's sphinxlike, sweetish face, and eyes that seemed
to know so many secrets, always affected Gyp unpleasantly. She said
quietly:
"Why do you like him, Gustav?"
"Like him? Oh, he is useful. A good judge of music, and--many things."
"I think he is hateful."
Fiorsen laughed.
"Hateful? Why hateful, my Gyp? He is a good friend. And he admires
you--oh, he admires you very much! He has success with women. He always
says, 'J'ai une technique merveilleuse pour seduire une femme.'"
Gyp laughed.
"Ugh! He's like a toad, I think."
"Ah, I shall tell him that! He will be flattered."
"If you do; if you give me away--I--"
He jumped up and caught her in his arms; his face was so comically
compunctious that she calmed down at once.
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