He looked round and saw the maid in the doorway.
“Please, sir, the driver says can he have his fare, or do you want him again? Twelve shillings.”
Fiorsen stared at her a moment in the way that—as the maid often said—made you feel like a silly.
“No. Pay him.”
The girl glanced at Gyp, answered: “Yes, sir,” and went out.
Fiorsen laughed; he laughed, holding his sides. It was droll coming on the top of his assertion, too droll! And, looking up at her, he said:
“That was good, wasn't it, Gyp?”
But her face had not abated its gravity; and, knowing that she was even more easily tickled by the incongruous than himself, he felt again that catch of fear. Something was different. Yes; something was really different.
“Did I hurt you last night?”
She shrugged her shoulders and went to the window. He looked at her darkly, jumped up, and swung out past her into the garden. And, almost at once, the sound of his violin, furiously played in the music-room, came across the lawn.