They were live things,
deeply, secretly related to him and to a dying, very infamous woman,
and his levelled gun sank time after time under the pressure of an
inexplicable pity. He had stood resolutely aloof from life, and now it
was dragging him down into its warmth with invisible, resistless hands.
Its values, which he had learnt to judge coldly and dispassionately,
weighing one against another, were shifting like sand. He seemed to
stand, naked and alone, in a changing, terrifying world.
In those days the papers in their frivolous columns, were full of Gyp
Labelle. Her press-agent was working frenziedly. It seemed that she
had quarrelled with her manager, torn her contract into shreds, and
slapped his face. There were gay doings nightly at the Kensington
house--orgies. One paper hinted at a certain South African millionaire.
A last fling--the reckless gesture of a worthless panic-stricken soul,
without dignity.
Or perhaps she had found that his diagnosis had been a mistake. Or she
would not believe the truth. Or she was drugging herself into
forgetfulness. Perhaps she might even have the courage to make an end
before the time came when forgetfulness would be impossible.
He returned to town, drawn by an obsession of uncertainty. He found
that she had arrived at her rooms in the hospital with the shrivelled
old woman and the macaw and a gramophone.
She had signed the register as Marie Dubois.
"It is my real name," she explained, "but you couldn't have a good time
with a name like that--_voyons_! Only one 'usband and 'eaps of babies.
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