With a faint smile Gyp shook her head.
“Say no one can see him.”
Markey's woodcock eyes, under their thin, dark, twisting brows, fastened on her dolefully; he opened the door to go. Fiorsen was standing there, and, with a quick movement, came in. She saw Markey raise his arms as if to catch him round the waist, and said quietly:
“Markey—wait outside, please.”
When the door was shut, she retreated against her dressing-table and stood gazing at her husband, while her heart throbbed as if it would leap through its coverings.
He had grown a short beard, his cheeks seemed a little fatter, and his eyes surely more green; otherwise, he looked much as she remembered him. And the first thought that passed through her was: 'Why did I ever pity him? He'll never fret or drink himself to death—he's got enough vitality for twenty men.'
His face, which had worn a fixed, nervous smile, grew suddenly grave as her own, and his eyes roved round the room in the old half-fierce, half-furtive way.
“Well, Gyp,” he said, and his voice shook a little: “At last! Won't you kiss me?”
The question seemed to Gyp idiotic; and suddenly she felt quite cool.
“If you want to speak to my father, you must come later; he's out.”