But she only sat
with arms folded, looking at the keys. The song that girl had sung at
Fiorsen's concert--song of the broken heart--came back to her.
No, no; she couldn't--couldn't! It was to her lover she would cling. And
tears ran down her cheeks.
A cab had stopped below, but not till Betty came rushing in did she look
up.
XIV
When, trembling all over, she entered the dining-room, Fiorsen was
standing by the sideboard, holding the child.
He came straight up and put her into Gyp's arms.
"Take her," he said, "and do what you will. Be happy."
Hugging her baby, close to the door as she could get, Gyp answered
nothing. Her heart was in such a tumult that she could not have spoken
a word to save her life; relieved, as one dying of thirst by unexpected
water; grateful, bewildered, abashed, yet instinctively aware of
something evanescent and unreal in his altruism. Daphne Wing! What
bargain did this represent?
Fiorsen must have felt the chill of this instinctive vision, for he
cried out:
"Yes! You never believed in me; you never thought me capable of good!
Why didn't you?"
Gyp bent her face over her baby to hide the quivering of her lips.
"I am sorry--very, very sorry."
Fiorsen came closer and looked into her face.
"By God, I am afraid I shall never forget you--never!"
Tears had come into his eyes, and Gyp watched them, moved, troubled, but
still deeply mistrusting.
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