“I mean him to do what I want now, not what he wants me. That's the only way when you love. Oh, don't smile like that, please; you do make me feel so—uncertain.”
“When are you going to see him next?”
Daphne Wing grew very pink.
“I don't know. He might be coming in to lunch. You see, it's not as if he were a stranger, is it?” Casting up her eyes a little, she added: “He won't even let me speak your name; it makes him mad. That's why I'm sure he still loves you; only, his love is so funny.” And, seizing Gyp's hand: “I shall never forget how good you were to me. I do hope you—you love somebody else.” Gyp pressed those damp, clinging fingers, and Daphne Wing hurried on: “I'm sure your baby's a darling. How you must be suffering! You look quite pale. But it isn't any good suffering. I learned that.”
Her eyes lighted on the table, and a faint ruefulness came into them, as if she were going to ask Gyp to eat the oysters.
Gyp bent forward and put her lips to the girl's forehead.
“Good-bye. My baby would thank you if she knew.”
And she turned to go. She heard a sob. Daphne Wing was crying; then, before Gyp could speak, she struck herself on the throat, and said, in a strangled voice:
“Tha—that's idiotic! I—I haven't cried since—since, you know. I—I'm perfect mistress of myself; only, I—only—I suppose you reminded me—I NEVER cry!”
Those words and the sound of a hiccough accompanied Gyp down the alley to her cab.