Hugging her baby, close to the door as she could get, Gyp answered nothing. Her heart was in such a tumult that she could not have spoken a word to save her life; relieved, as one dying of thirst by unexpected water; grateful, bewildered, abashed, yet instinctively aware of something evanescent and unreal in his altruism. Daphne Wing! What bargain did this represent?
Fiorsen must have felt the chill of this instinctive vision, for he cried out:
“Yes! You never believed in me; you never thought me capable of good! Why didn't you?”
Gyp bent her face over her baby to hide the quivering of her lips.
“I am sorry—very, very sorry.”
Fiorsen came closer and looked into her face.
“By God, I am afraid I shall never forget you—never!”
Tears had come into his eyes, and Gyp watched them, moved, troubled, but still deeply mistrusting.
He brushed his hand across his face; and the thought flashed through her: 'He means me to see them! Ah, what a cynical wretch I am!'
Fiorsen saw that thought pass, and muttering suddenly: