One had settled on the
hydrangea plant that filled the hearth. Gyp looked at the soft, white,
downy thing, whose head was like a tiny owl's against the bluish petals;
looked at the purple-grey tiles down there, and the stuff of her own
frock, in the shaded gleam of the lamps. And all her love of beauty
rebelled, called up by his: "Oh, no!" She would be unsightly soon, and
suffer pain, and perhaps die of it, as her own mother had died. She set
her teeth, listening to that grown-up child revolting against what he
had brought on her, and touched his hand, protectingly.
It interested, even amused her this night and next day to watch his
treatment of the disconcerting piece of knowledge. For when at last he
realized that he had to acquiesce in nature, he began, as she had known
he would, to jib away from all reminder of it. She was careful not to
suggest that he should go away without her, knowing his perversity. But
when he proposed that she should come to Ostend with him and Rosek, she
answered, after seeming deliberation, that she thought she had better
not--she would rather stay at home quite quietly; but he must certainly
go and get a good holiday.
When he was really gone, peace fell on Gyp--peace such as one feels,
having no longer the tight, banded sensations of a fever. To be without
that strange, disorderly presence in the house! When she woke in the
sultry silence of the next morning, she utterly failed to persuade
herself that she was missing him, missing the sound of his breathing,
the sight of his rumpled hair on the pillow, the outline of his long
form under the sheet.
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