In the few seconds before her visitor appeared, Gyp experienced the sort of excitement one has entering a field where a bull is grazing.
But not even his severest critics could accuse Rosek of want of tact. He had hoped to see Gustav, but it was charming of her to give him lunch—a great delight!
He seemed to have put off, as if for her benefit, his corsets, and some, at all events, of his offending looks—seemed simpler, more genuine. His face was slightly browned, as if, for once, he had been taking his due of air and sun. He talked without cynical submeanings, was most appreciative of her “charming little house,” and even showed some warmth in his sayings about art and music. Gyp had never disliked him less. But her instincts were on the watch. After lunch, they went out across the garden to see the music-room, and he sat down at the piano. He had the deep, caressing touch that lies in fingers of steel worked by a real passion for tone. Gyp sat on the divan and listened. She was out of his sight there; and she looked at him, wondering. He was playing Schumann's Child Music. How could one who produced such fresh idyllic sounds have sinister intentions? And presently she said:
“Count Rosek!”
“Madame?”
“Will you please tell me why you sent Daphne Wing here yesterday?”
“I send her?”
“Yes.”
But instantly she regretted having asked that question. He had swung round on the music-stool and was looking full at her. His face had changed.
“Since you ask me, I thought you should know that Gustav is seeing a good deal of her.”