And the bird was of green and yellow with a red beak.
On being turned out of the nursery with the assurance that it was "all
right--only a little faint," Fiorsen went down-stairs disconsolate.
The atmosphere of this dark house where he was a stranger, an unwelcome
stranger, was insupportable. He wanted nothing in it but Gyp, and Gyp
had fainted at his touch. No wonder he felt miserable. He opened a
door. What room was this? A piano! The drawing-room. Ugh! No fire--what
misery! He recoiled to the doorway and stood listening. Not a sound.
Grey light in the cheerless room; almost dark already in the hall behind
him. What a life these English lived--worse than the winter in his old
country home in Sweden, where, at all events, they kept good fires. And,
suddenly, all his being revolted. Stay here and face that father--and
that image of a servant! Stay here for a night of this! Gyp was not
his Gyp, lying there with that baby beside her, in this hostile house.
Smothering his footsteps, he made for the outer hall. There were his
coat and hat. He put them on. His bag? He could not see it. No matter!
They could send it after him. He would write to her--say that her
fainting had upset him--that he could not risk making her faint
again--could not stay in the house so near her, yet so far. She would
understand. And there came over him a sudden wave of longing.
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