And then she caught his eye. The
look was like, yet how unlike, those looks at Wiesbaden. It had the old
love-hunger, but had lost the adoration, its spiritual essence. And she
thought: 'Is it my fault, or is it only because he has me now to do what
he likes with?' It was all another disillusionment, perhaps the greatest
yet. But she kindled and flushed at the applause, and lost herself in
pleasure at his success. At the interval, she slipped out at once, for
her first visit to the artist's room, the mysterious enchantment of a
peep behind the scenes. He was coming down from his last recall; and at
sight of her his look of bored contempt vanished; lifting her hand, he
kissed it. Gyp felt happier than she had since her marriage. Her eyes
shone, and she whispered:
"Beautiful!"
He whispered back:
"So! Do you love me, Gyp?"
She nodded. And at that moment she did, or thought so.
Then people began to come; amongst them her old music-master, Monsieur
Harmost, grey and mahogany as ever, who, after a "Merveilleux," "Tres
fort" or two to Fiorsen, turned his back on him to talk to his old
pupil.
So she had married Fiorsen--dear, dear! That was extraordinary, but
extraordinary! And what was it like, to be always with him--a little
funny--not so? And how was her music? It would be spoiled now. Ah, what
a pity! No? She must come to him, then; yes, come again.
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