Dressing hurriedly, he found he
had but one emotion now, one longing--to get to Gyp. Sitting back in
his cab, hands deep-thrust into the pockets of his ulster, he smiled,
enjoying even the smell of the misty London morning. Where would she
be--in the hall of the hotel waiting, or upstairs still?
Not in the hall! And asking for her room, he made his way to its door.
She was standing in the far corner motionless, deadly pale, quivering
from head to foot; and when he flung his arms round her, she gave a long
sigh, closing her eyes. With his lips on hers, he could feel her almost
fainting; and he too had no consciousness of anything but that long
kiss.
Next day, they went abroad to a little place not far from Fecamp, in
that Normandy countryside where all things are large--the people, the
beasts, the unhedged fields, the courtyards of the farms guarded so
squarely by tall trees, the skies, the sea, even the blackberries
large. And Gyp was happy. But twice there came letters, in that
too-well-remembered handwriting, which bore a Scottish postmark. A
phantom increases in darkness, solidifies when seen in mist. Jealousy
is rooted not in reason, but in the nature that feels it--in her
nature that loved desperately, felt proudly. And jealousy flourishes on
scepticism. Even if pride would have let her ask, what good? She would
not have believed the answers.
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