he was
convinced that she could no longer be attractive to one so easily upset
in his nerves, so intolerant of ugliness. As to deeper feelings about
her--had he any? He certainly never gave anything up, or sacrificed
himself in any way. If she had loved, she felt she would want to give up
everything to the loved one; but then--she would never love! And yet he
seemed frightened about her. It was puzzling! But perhaps she would not
be puzzled much longer about that or anything; for she often had the
feeling that she would die. How could she be going to live, grudging her
fate? What would give her strength to go through with it? And, at times,
she felt as if she would be glad to die. Life had defrauded her, or
she had defrauded herself of life. Was it really only a year since that
glorious day's hunting when Dad and she, and the young man with the
clear eyes and the irrepressible smile, had slipped away with the hounds
ahead of all the field--the fatal day Fiorsen descended from the clouds
and asked for her? An overwhelming longing for Mildenham came on her, to
get away there with her father and Betty.

She went at the beginning of November.

Over her departure, Fiorsen behaved like a tired child that will not go
to bed. He could not bear to be away from her, and so forth; but when
she had gone, he spent a furious bohemian evening. At about five, he
woke with "an awful cold feeling in my heart," as he wrote to Gyp next
day--"an awful feeling, my Gyp; I walked up and down for hours" (in
reality, half an hour at most). "How shall I bear to be away from you at
this time? I feel lost." Next day, he found himself in Paris with Rosek.
"I could not stand," he wrote, "the sight of the streets, of the garden,
of our room. When I come back I shall stay with Rosek. Nearer to the
day I will come; I must come to you." But Gyp, when she read the letter,
said to Winton: "Dad, when it comes, don't send for him. I don't want
him here."

With those letters of his, she buried the last remnants of her feeling
that somewhere in him there must be something as fine and beautiful
as the sounds he made with his violin. And yet she felt those letters
genuine in a way, pathetic, and with real feeling of a sort.

From the moment she reached Mildenham, she began to lose that
hopelessness about herself; and, for the first time, had the sensation
of wanting to live in the new life within her. She first felt it, going
into her old nursery, where ever