The only person, besides her master, to
whom she confided her efforts was--strangely enough--Rosek. But he had
surprised her one day copying out some music, and said at once: "I knew.
I was certain you composed. Ah, do play it to me! I am sure you have
talent." The warmth with which he praised that little "caprice" was
surely genuine; and she felt so grateful that she even played him
others, and then a song for him to sing. From that day, he no longer
seemed to her odious; she even began to have for him a certain
friendliness, to be a little sorry, watching him, pale, trim, and
sphinx-like, in her drawing-room or garden, getting no nearer to the
fulfilment of his desire. He had never again made love to her, but
she knew that at the least sign he would. His face and his invincible
patience made him pathetic to her. Women such as Gyp cannot actively
dislike those who admire them greatly. She consulted him about Fiorsen's
debts. There were hundreds of pounds owing, it seemed, and, in addition,
much to Rosek himself. The thought of these debts weighed unbearably on
her. Why did he, HOW did he get into debt like this? What became of the
money he earned? His fees, this summer, were good enough. There was such
a feeling of degradation about debt. It was, somehow, so underbred to
owe money to all sorts of people. Was it on that girl, on other women,
that he spent it all? Or was it simply that his nature had holes in
every pocket?
Watching Fiorsen closely, that spring and early summer, she was
conscious of a change, a sort of loosening, something in him had given
way--as when, in winding a watch, the key turns on and on, the ratchet
being broken.
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