Harry liked the doctrine, but had not the wit to support it with success. He was constantly depressed, and even the cheery spirits in the billiard-room could do little for him. The futility of his flight and the cowardice of it became apparent as the days rolled by. Why had he left London and what was he doing in this place? Was not Maryska alone, and was she the one to be left safely to her own devices? He began to be afraid for her, and to say that he must return. His courage shrank from the ordeal, but his desire would face it.
And that was the state of things when, without any warning at all, "the little gipsy" came to Brighton, and, presenting herself immediately at his rooms, declared with conviction her intention not to depart therefrom without her lover.
CHAPTER IV
SURRENDER AND AFTERWARDS
I
She looked very tired; there were deep black lines beneath her eyes, and her dress was muddy. Incidentally she told him that she had walked from the station—a feminine coup to deceive possible adversaries, and one greatly to her liking.
Harry occupied a bedroom and a sitting-room in that Boulevard St. Germain of Brighton, Oriental Terrace, opposite the club. The sitting-room had a window, from where you could see the pier if your neck were long enough; the bedroom was dark and gloomy, and suggestive of the monastic habit. Neither apartment had any ornament to speak of—the pictures wounded the gentlest critic; the chairs were mid-Victorian and covered in leather. Yet when Maryska came, he would have sworn that this was a house of Arcady. One wild question he put to her: one loud word of remonstrance which brought the tears to her eyes. Then she was in his arms, her heart beating like a frightened bird's, all her nerves quivering when her lips sought his own.
"Maryska, what have you done?"