Gyp had a wakeful night. The question she herself had raised, of telling Fiorsen, kept her thoughts in turmoil. Was he likely to divorce her if she did? His contempt for what he called 'these bourgeois morals,' his instability, the very unpleasantness, and offence to his vanity—all this would prevent him. No; he would not divorce her, she was sure, unless by any chance he wanted legal freedom, and that was quite unlikely. What then would be gained? Ease for her conscience? But had she any right to ease her conscience if it brought harm to her lover? And was it not ridiculous to think of conscience in regard to one who, within a year of marriage, had taken to himself a mistress, and not even spared the home paid for and supported by his wife? No; if she told Fiorsen, it would only be to salve her pride, wounded by doing what she did not avow. Besides, where was he? At the other end of the world for all she knew.
She came down to breakfast, dark under the eyes and no whit advanced toward decision. Neither of them mentioned their last night's talk, and Gyp went back to her room to busy herself with dress, after those weeks away. It was past noon when, at a muffled knock, she found Markey outside her door.
“Mr. Fiorsen, m'm.”
Gyp beckoned him in, and closed the door.
“In the hall, m'm—slipped in when I answered the bell; short of shoving, I couldn't keep him out.”
Gyp stood full half a minute before she said:
“Is my father in?”
“No, m'm; the major's gone to the fencin'-club.”
“What did you say?”
“Said I would see. So far as I was aware, nobody was in. Shall I have a try to shift him, m'm?”