the latter to Wordsworth. After
tea she went to Winton's study, that dingy little room where he never
studied anything, with leather chairs and books which--except "Mr.
Jorrocks," Byron, those on the care of horses, and the novels of
Whyte-Melville--were never read; with prints of superequine celebrities,
his sword, and photographs of Gyp and of brother officers on the walls.
Two bright spots there were indeed--the fire, and the little bowl that
Gyp always kept filled with flowers.

When she came gliding in like that, a slender, rounded figure, her
creamy, dark-eyed, oval face all cloudy, she seemed to Winton to have
grown up of a sudden. He had known all day that something was coming,
and had been cudgelling his brains finely. From the fervour of his love
for her, he felt an anxiety that was almost fear. What could have
happened last night--that first night of her entrance into
society--meddlesome, gossiping society! She slid down to the floor
against his knee. He could not see her face, could not even touch her;
for she had settled down on his right side. He mastered his tremors and
said:

"Well, Gyp--tired?"

"No."

"A little bit?"

"No."

"Was it up to what you thought, last night?"

"Yes."

The logs hissed and crackled; the long flames ruffled in the
chimney-draught; the wind roared outside--then, so suddenly that it took
his breath away:

"Dad, are you really and truly my father?"

When that which one has always known might happen at last does happen,
how little one is prepared! In the few seconds before an answer that
could in no way be evaded, Winton had time for a tumult of reflection. A
less resolute character would have been caught by utter mental blankness,
then flung itself in panic on "Yes" or "No." But Winton was incapable of
losing his head; he would not answer without having faced the
consequences of his reply. To be her father was the most warming thing
in his life; but if he avowed it, how far would he injure her love for
him? What did a girl know? How make her understand? What would her
feeling be about her dead mother? How would that dead loved one feel?
What would she have wished?

It was a cruel moment. And the girl, pressed against his knee, with face
hidden, gave him no help. Impossible to keep it from her, now that her
instinct was roused! Silence, too, would answer for him. And clenching
his hand on the arm of his chair, he said:

"Yes, Gyp; your mother an