d I loved each other." He felt a quiver go
through her, would have given much to see her face. What, even now, did
she understand? Well, it must be gone through with, and he said:

"What made you ask?"

She shook her head and murmured:

"I'm glad."

Grief, shock, even surprise would have roused all his loyalty to the
dead, all the old stubborn bitterness, and he would have frozen up
against her. But this acquiescent murmur made him long to smooth it
down.

"Nobody has ever known. She died when you were born. It was a fearful
grief to me. If you've heard anything, it's just gossip, because you go
by my name. Your mother was never talked about. But it's best you should
know, now you're grown up. People don't often love as she and I loved.
You needn't be ashamed."

She had not moved, and her face was still turned from him. She said
quietly:

"I'm not ashamed. Am I very like her?"

"Yes; more than I could ever have hoped."

Very low she said:

"Then you don't love me for myself?"

Winton was but dimly conscious of how that question revealed her nature,
its power of piercing instinctively to the heart of things, its sensitive
pride, and demand for utter and exclusive love. To things that go too
deep, one opposes the bulwark of obtuseness. And, smiling, he simply
said:

"What do you think?"

Then, to his dismay, he perceived that she was crying--struggling against
it so that her shoulder shook against his knee. He had hardly ever known
her cry, not in all the disasters of unstable youth, and she had received
her full meed of knocks and tumbles. He could only stroke that shoulder,
and say:

"Don't cry, Gyp; don't cry!"

She ceased as suddenly as she had begun, got up, and, before he too could
rise, was gone.

That evening, at dinner, she was just as usual. He could not detect the
slightest difference in her voice or manner, or in her good-night kiss.
And so a moment that he had dreaded for years was over, leaving only the
faint shame which follows a breach of reticence on the spirits of those
who worship it. While the old secret had been quite undisclosed, it had
not troubled him. Disclosed, it hurt him. But Gyp, in those twenty-four
hours, had left childhood behind for good; her feeling toward men had
hardened. If she did not hurt them a little, they would hurt her! The
sex-instinct had come to life. To Winton she gave as much love as ever,
even more, perhaps; but the dew was off.