he stood
as if prepared to be exceptionally severe. And Gyp played, whether from
overexcited nerves or from not having had any lunch, better than she had
ever played. The Chopin polonaise in A flat, that song of revolution,
which had always seemed so unattainable, went as if her fingers were
being worked for her. When she had finished, Monsieur Harmost, bending
forward, lifted one of her hands and put his lips to it. She felt the
scrub of his little bristly beard, and raised her face with a deep sigh
of satisfaction. A voice behind them said mockingly:

"Bravo!"

There, by the door, stood Fiorsen.

"Congratulations, madame! I have long wanted to see you under the
inspiration of your--master!"

Gyp's heart began to beat desperately. Monsieur Harmost had not moved.
A faint grin slowly settled in his beard, but his eyes were startled.

Fiorsen kissed the back of his own hand.

"To this old Pantaloon you come to give your heart. Ho--what a lover!"

Gyp saw the old man quiver; she sprang up and cried:

"You brute!"

Fiorsen ran forward, stretching out his arms toward Monsieur Harmost, as
if to take him by the throat.

The old man drew himself up. "Monsieur," he said, "you are certainly
drunk."

Gyp slipped between, right up to those outstretched hands till she could
feel their knuckles against her. Had he gone mad? Would he strangle
her? But her eyes never moved from his, and his began to waver; his
hands dropped, and, with a kind of moan, he made for the door.

Monsieur Harmost's voice behind her said:

"Before you go, monsieur, give me some explanation of this imbecility!"

Fiorsen spun round, shook his fist, and went out muttering. They heard
the front door slam. Gyp turned abruptly to the window, and there, in
her agitation, she noticed little outside things as one does in moments
of bewildered anger. Even into that back yard, summer had crept. The
leaves of the sumach-tree were glistening; in a three-cornered little
patch of sunlight, a black cat with a blue ribbon round its neck was
basking. The voice of one hawking strawberries drifted melancholy from a
side street. She was conscious that Monsieur Harmost was standing very
still, with a hand pressed to his mouth, and she felt a perfect passion
of compunction and anger. That kind and harmless old man--to be so
insulted! This was indeed the culmination of all Gustav's outrages! She
would never forgive him this! For he had insulted