e-ended in every way, but Gyp was hooked into his senses,
and, for all that he could not get near her, into his spirit. Her very
passivity was her strength, the secret of her magnetism. In her, he felt
some of that mysterious sentiency of nature, which, even in yielding to
man's fevers, lies apart with a faint smile--the uncapturable smile of
the woods and fields by day or night, that makes one ache with longing.
He felt in her some of the unfathomable, soft, vibrating indifference of
the flowers and trees and streams, of the rocks, of birdsongs, and the
eternal hum, under sunshine or star-shine. Her dark, half-smiling eyes
enticed him, inspired an unquenchable thirst. And his was one of those
natures which, encountering spiritual difficulty, at once jib off, seek
anodynes, try to bandage wounded egoism with excess--a spoiled child,
with the desperations and the inherent pathos, the something repulsive
and the something lovable that belong to all such. Having wished for
this moon, and got her, he now did not know what to do with her, kept
taking great bites at her, with a feeling all the time of getting
further and further away. At moments, he desired revenge for his failure
to get near her spiritually, and was ready to commit follies of all
kinds. He was only kept in control at all by his work. For he did
work hard; though, even there, something was lacking. He had all
the qualities of making good, except the moral backbone holding
them together, which alone could give him his rightful--as he
thought--pre-eminence. It often surprised and vexed him to find that
some contemporary held higher rank than himself.

Threading the streets in his cab, he mused:

"Did I do anything that really shocked her last night? Why didn't I
wait for her this morning and find out the worst?" And his lips twisted
awry--for to find out the worst was not his forte. Meditation, seeking
as usual a scapegoat, lighted on Rosek. Like most egoists addicted to
women, he had not many friends. Rosek was the most constant. But even
for him, Fiorsen had at once the contempt and fear that a man naturally
uncontrolled and yet of greater scope has for one of less talent but
stronger will-power. He had for him, too, the feeling of a wayward
child for its nurse, mixed with the need that an artist, especially an
executant artist, feels for a connoisseur and patron with well-lined
pockets.

'Curse Paul!' he thought. 'He must know--he does know--that brandy of