oad. Why must things come to
an end? For the first time in her life, she thought of Mildenham and
hunting without enthusiasm. She would rather stay in London. There she
would not be cut off from music, from dancing, from people, and all the
exhilaration of being appreciated. On the air came the shrilly, hollow
droning of a thresher, and the sound seemed exactly to express her
feelings. A pigeon flew over, white against the leaden sky; some
birch-trees that had gone golden shivered and let fall a shower of drops.
It was lonely here! And, suddenly, two little boys bolted out of the
hedge, nearly upsetting her, and scurried down the road. Something had
startled them. Gyp, putting up her face to see, felt on it soft
pin-points of rain. Her frock would be spoiled, and it was one she was
fond of--dove-coloured, velvety, not meant for weather. She turned for
refuge to the birch-trees. It would be over directly, perhaps. Muffled
in distance, the whining drone of that thresher still came travelling,
deepening her discomfort. Then in the hedge, whence the boys had bolted
down, a man reared himself above the lane, and came striding along toward
her. He jumped down the bank, among the birch-trees. And she saw it was
Fiorsen--panting, dishevelled, pale with heat. He must have followed
her, and climbed straight up the hillside from the path she had come
along in the bottom, before crossing the stream. His artistic dandyism
had been harshly treated by that scramble. She might have laughed; but,
instead, she felt excited, a little scared by the look on his hot, pale
face. He said, breathlessly:

"I have caught you. So you are going to-morrow, and never told me! You
thought you would slip away--not a word for me! Are you always so cruel?
Well, I will not spare you, either!"

Crouching suddenly, he took hold of her broad ribbon sash, and buried his
face in it. Gyp stood trembling--the action had not stirred her sense of
the ridiculous. He circled her knees with his arms.

"Oh, Gyp, I love you--I love you--don't send me away--let me be with you!
I am your dog--your slave. Oh, Gyp, I love you!"

His voice moved and terrified her. Men had said "I love you" several
times during those last two years, but never with that lost-soul ring of
passion, never with that look in the eyes at once fiercely hungry and so
supplicating, never with that restless, eager, timid touch of hands. She
could only murmur:

"Please get