Yes, Miss Winton;
I have committed many follies, but they are nothing to those I shall
commit the day I do not see you any more!" And, with that disturbing
remark, he got up and left her. She had smiled at his words, but within
herself she felt excitement, scepticism, compassion, and something she
did not understand at all. In those days, she understood herself very
little.

But how far did Winton understand, how far see what was going on? He was
a stoic; but that did not prevent jealousy from taking alarm, and causing
him twinges more acute than those he still felt in his left foot. He was
afraid of showing disquiet by any dramatic change, or he would have
carried her off a fortnight at least before his cure was over. He knew
too well the signs of passion. That long, loping, wolfish fiddling
fellow with the broad cheekbones and little side-whiskers (Good God!) and
greenish eyes whose looks at Gyp he secretly marked down, roused his
complete distrust. Perhaps his inbred English contempt for foreigners
and artists kept him from direct action. He COULD not take it quite
seriously. Gyp, his fastidious perfect Gyp, succumbing, even a little to
a fellow like that! Never! His jealous affection, too, could not admit
that she would neglect to consult him in any doubt or difficulty. He
forgot the sensitive secrecy of girls, forgot that his love for her had
ever shunned words, her love for him never indulged in confidences. Nor
did he see more than a little of what there was to see, and that little
was doctored by Fiorsen for his eyes, shrewd though they were. Nor was
there in all so very much, except one episode the day before they left,
and of that he knew nothing.

That last afternoon was very still, a little mournful. It had rained the
night before, and the soaked tree-trunks, the soaked fallen leaves gave
off a faint liquorice-like perfume. In Gyp there was a feeling, as if
her spirit had been suddenly emptied of excitement and delight. Was it
the day, or the thought of leaving this place where she had so enjoyed
herself? After lunch, when Winton was settling his accounts, she
wandered out through the long park stretching up the valley. The sky was
brooding-grey, the trees were still and melancholy. It was all a little
melancholy, and she went on and on, across the stream, round into a muddy
lane that led up through the outskirts of a village, on to the higher
ground whence she could return by the main r