So the summer wore on till concerts were over, and it was supposed to be
impossible to stay in London. But she dreaded going away. She wanted
to be left quiet in her little house. It was this which made her tell
Fiorsen her secret one night, after the theatre. He had begun to talk of
a holiday, sitting on the edge of the settee, with a glass in his hand
and a cigarette between his lips. His cheeks, white and hollow from too
much London, went a curious dull red; he got up and stared at her. Gyp
made an involuntary movement with her hands.
"You needn't look at me. It's true."
He put down glass and cigarette and began to tramp the room. And Gyp
stood with a little smile, not even watching him. Suddenly he clasped
his forehead and broke out:
"But I don't want it; I won't have it--spoiling my Gyp." Then quickly
going up to her with a scared face: "I don't want it; I'm afraid of it.
Don't have it."
In Gyp's heart came the same feeling as when he had stood there drunk,
against the wall--compassion, rather than contempt of his childishness.
And taking his hand she said:
"All right, Gustav. It shan't bother you. When I begin to get ugly, I'll
go away with Betty till it's over."
He went down on his knees.
"Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no! My beautiful Gyp!"
And Gyp sat like a sphinx, for fear that she too might let slip those
words: "Oh, no!"
The windows were open, and moths had come in.
Pages:
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141