(She was like that, too, he thought--a dash of gay, unashamed colour in
the sad scheme of things.)
Towards midnight she motioned to him and whispered something that he
could not understand. But the old woman rose heavily from her knees
and went over to the gramophone, thrusting aside with savage resolution
the nurse who tried to intercept her. Stonehouse himself made an
involuntary gesture.
"Why not?" he said. "Let her alone."
He stood close to her and waited. He felt that some part of him was
dying with her, that he stood with her before a black partition which
was thinning slowly, and that presently they would both know whatever
lay beyond.
The macaw fidgeted on its golden perch, craning towards the light and
blinking uneasily as though a strange thing had come into the room.
The needle scratched under a shaking hand.
"I'm Gyp Labelle;
Come dance with me. . ."
He bent over her so that his face almost touched hers.
"I'm sorry--I'm sorry, Gyp."
She turned her head a little, her lips moving. It was evident that she
had not really heard. But he knew that she had never borne him malice.
And then suddenly it was over. He had broken through. Beyond were
understanding and peace and strange and difficult tears. He loved her,
as beneath the fret and heat of passion Cosgrave and all those others
had loved her, for what she sincerely was and for the brave, gay thing
she had to give. He loved her more simply still as in rare moments of
their lives men love one another, saying: "This is my brother--this is
my sister.
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