, out of--what?

And suddenly he said:

"Gyp! Forgive!"

She uttered a sigh, and turned away her face.

He bent down against the eider-down. She could hear him drawing long,
sobbing breaths, and, in the midst of her lassitude and hopelessness,
a sort of pity stirred her. What did it matter? She said, in a choked
voice:

"Very well, I forgive."

XIV

The human creature has wonderful power of putting up with things. Gyp
never really believed that Daphne Wing was of the past. Her sceptical
instinct told her that what Fiorsen might honestly mean to do was very
different from what he would do under stress of opportunity carefully
put within his reach.

Since her return, Rosek had begun to come again, very careful not
to repeat his mistake, but not deceiving her at all. Though his
self-control was as great as Fiorsen's was small, she felt he had not
given up his pursuit of her, and would take very good care that Daphne
Wing was afforded every chance of being with her husband. But pride
never let her allude to the girl. Besides, what good to speak of her?
They would both lie--Rosek, because he obviously saw the mistaken line
of his first attack; Fiorsen, because his temperament did not permit him
to suffer by speaking the truth.

Having set herself to endure, she found she must live in the moment,
never think of the future, never think much of anything. Fortunately,
nothing so conduces to vacuity as a baby. She gave herself up to it
with desperation. It was a good baby, silent, somewhat understanding. In
watching its face, and feeling it warm against her, Gyp succeeded daily
in getting away into the hypnotic state of mothers, and cows that chew
the cud. But the baby slept a great deal, and much of its time was
claimed by Betty. Those hours, and they were many, Gyp found difficult.
She had lost interest in dress and household elegance, keeping just
enough to satisfy her fastidiousness; money, too, was scarce, under the
drain of Fiorsen's irregular requirements. If she read, she began almost
at once to brood. She was cut off from the music-room, had not crossed
its threshold since her discovery. Aunt Rosamund's efforts to take her
into society were fruitless--all the effervescence was out of that,
and, though her father came, he never stayed long for fear of meeting
Fiorsen. In this condition of affairs, she turned more and more to her
own music, and one morning, after she had come across some compositions
of he