ing and quarrelling deep down in her
heart. It was certainly not love, not even the beginning of that; but it
was the kind of dangerous interest children feel in things mysterious,
out of reach, yet within reach, if only they dared! And the tug of music
was there, and the tug of those words of the baroness about
salvation--the thought of achieving the impossible, reserved only for the
woman of supreme charm, for the true victress. But all these thoughts
and feelings were as yet in embryo. She might never see him again! And
she certainly did not know whether she even wanted to.

IV

Gyp was in the habit of walking with Winton to the Kochbrunnen, where,
with other patient-folk, he was required to drink slowly for twenty
minutes every morning. While he was imbibing she would sit in a remote
corner of the garden, and read a novel in the Reclam edition, as a daily
German lesson.

She was sitting there, the morning after the "at-home" at the Baroness
von Maisen's, reading Turgenev's "Torrents of Spring," when she saw Count
Rosek sauntering down the path with a glass of the waters in his hand.
Instant memory of the smile with which he had introduced Fiorsen made her
take cover beneath her sunshade. She could see his patent-leathered feet,
and well-turned, peg-top-trousered legs go by with the gait of a man
whose waist is corseted. The certainty that he wore those prerogatives
of womanhood increased her dislike. How dare men be so effeminate? Yet
someone had told her that he was a good rider, a good fencer, and very
strong. She drew a breath of relief when he was past, and, for fear he
might turn and come back, closed her little book and slipped away. But
her figure and her springing step were more unmistakable than she knew.

Next morning, on the same bench, she was reading breathlessly the scene
between Gemma and Sanin at the window, when she heard Fiorsen's voice,
behind her, say:

"Miss Winton!"

He, too, held a glass of the waters in one hand, and his hat in the
other.

"I have just made your father's acquaintance. May I sit down a minute?"

Gyp drew to one side on the bench, and he sat down.

"What are you reading?"

"A story called 'Torrents of Spring.'"

"Ah, the finest ever written! Where are you?"

"Gemma and Sanin in the thunderstorm."

"Wait! You have Madame Polozov to come! What a creation! How old are
you, Miss Winton?"

"Twenty-two."

"You would be too young to appreciate t