Gyp played. Twice he nodded; once he tapped his fingers on his teeth, and showed her the whites of his eyes—which meant: “That will have to be very different!” And once he grunted. When she had finished, he sat down beside her, took her hand in his, and, examining the fingers, began:
“Yes, yes, soon again! Spoiling yourself, playing for that fiddler! Trop sympathique! The back-bone, the back-bone—we shall improve that. Now, four hours a day for six weeks—and we shall have something again.”
Gyp said softly:
“I have a baby, Monsieur Harmost.”
Monsieur Harmost bounded.
“What! That is a tragedy!” Gyp shook her head. “You like it? A baby! Does it not squall?”
“Very little.”
“Mon Dieu! Well, well, you are still as beautiful as ever. That is something. Now, what can you do with this baby? Could you get rid of it a little? This is serious. This is a talent in danger. A fiddler, and a baby! C'est beaucoup! C'est trop!”
Gyp smiled. And Monsieur Harmost, whose exterior covered much sensibility, stroked her hand.
“You have grown up, my little friend,” he said gravely. “Never mind; nothing is wasted. But a baby!” And he chirruped his lips. “Well; courage! We shall do things yet!”