Gyp thought of her baby, and of that which
would have been its half-brother; and now that she was so near having to
go back to Fiorsen, she knew that she had not been wise to come here.
To have been in contact with the girl, to have touched, as it were, that
trouble, had made the thought of life with him less tolerable even
than it was before. Only the longing to see her baby made return
seem possible. Ah, well--she would get used to it all again! But the
anticipation of his eyes fixed on her, then sliding away from the
meeting with her eyes, of all--of all that would begin again, suddenly
made her shiver. She was very near to loathing at that moment. He, the
father of her baby! The thought seemed ridiculous and strange. That
little creature seemed to bind him to her no more than if it were the
offspring of some chance encounter, some pursuit of nymph by faun.
No! It was hers alone. And a sudden feverish longing to get back to it
overpowered all other thought. This longing grew in her so all night
that at breakfast she told her father. Swallowing down whatever his
feeling may have been, he said:
"Very well, my child; I'll come up with you."
Putting her into the cab in London, he asked:
"Have you still got your key of Bury Street? Good! Remember, Gyp--any
time day or night--there it is for you."
She had wired to Fiorsen from Mildenham that she was coming, and she
reached home soon after three.
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