Surely--surely it was curled with tongs! A kind of
spasm of amusement was set free in her heart, and, almost inaudibly, the
words escaped her lips: "Une technique merveilleuse!" His eyes wavered;
he uttered a little gasp; his lips fell apart. Gyp walked across the
room and put her hand on the bell. She had lost her fear. Without a
word, he turned, and went out into the garden. She watched him cross
the lawn. Gone! She had beaten him by the one thing not even violent
passions can withstand--ridicule, almost unconscious ridicule. Then she
gave way and pulled the bell with nervous violence. The sight of the
maid, in her trim black dress and spotless white apron, coming from the
house completed her restoration. Was it possible that she had really
been frightened, nearly failing in that encounter, nearly dominated by
that man--in her own house, with her own maids down there at hand? And
she said quietly:
"I want the puppies, please."
"Yes, ma'am."
Over the garden, the day brooded in the first-gathered warmth of summer.
Mid-June of a fine year. The air was drowsy with hum and scent.
And Gyp, sitting in the shade, while the puppies rolled and snapped,
searched her little world for comfort and some sense of safety, and
could not find it; as if there were all round her a hot heavy fog in
which things lurked, and where she kept erect only by pride and the will
not to cry out that she was struggling and afraid.
Pages:
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132