At the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated whether to go up
or no. At last, she mounted softly. It must be in the front room that
the bereaved girl was lying--the girl who, but a year ago, had debated
with such naive self-importance whether or not it was her duty to take a
lover. Gyp summoned courage to tap gently. The economic agent opened the
door an inch, but, seeing who it was, slipped her robust and handsome
person through into the corridor.
"You, my dear!" she said in a whisper. "That's nice!"
"How is she?"
"Fairly well--considering. You know about it?"
"Yes; can I see her?"
"I hardly think so. I can't make her out. She's got no spirit, not an
ounce. She doesn't want to get well, I believe. It's the man, I expect."
And, looking at Gyp with her fine blue eyes, she asked: "Is that it? Is
he tired of her?"
Gyp met her gaze better than she had believed possible.
"Yes, nurse."
The economic agent swept her up and down. "It's a pleasure to look at
you. You've got quite a colour, for you. After all, I believe it MIGHT
do her good to see you. Come in!"
Gyp passed in behind her, and stood gazing, not daring to step forward.
What a white face, with eyes closed, with fair hair still damp on the
forehead, with one white hand lying on the sheet above her heart! What
a frail madonna of the sugar-plums! On the whole of that bed the only
colour seemed the gold hoop round the wedding-finger.
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