She was a success, but secretly she felt
that she did not belong to it, nor, in truth, did Fiorsen, who was much
too genuine a bohemian, and artist, and mocked at the Gallants and even
the Roseks of this life, as he mocked at Winton, Aunt Rosamund, and
their world. Life with him had certainly one effect on Gyp; it made her
feel less and less a part of that old orthodox, well-bred world which
she had known before she married him; but to which she had confessed to
Winton she had never felt that she belonged, since she knew the secret
of her birth. She was, in truth, much too impressionable, too avid of
beauty, and perhaps too naturally critical to accept the dictates of
their fact-and-form-governed routine; only, of her own accord, she would
never have had initiative enough to step out of its circle. Loosened
from those roots, unable to attach herself to this new soil, and not
spiritually leagued with her husband, she was more and more lonely. Her
only truly happy hours were those spent with Winton or at her piano or
with her puppies. She was always wondering at what she had done, longing
to find the deep, the sufficient reason for having done it. But the more
she sought and longed, the deeper grew her bewilderment, her feeling of
being in a cage. Of late, too, another and more definite uneasiness had
come to her.
She spent much time in her garden, where the blossoms had all dropped,
lilac was over, acacias coming into bloom, and blackbirds silent.
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