all he had said she was! How ridiculous to suppose that he would stop
his follies for her, that she had any real power over him! But, deep
down, she did not quite believe this. It would have wounded her belief
in herself too much--a belief so subtle and intimate that she was not
conscious of it; belief in that something about her which had inspired
the baroness to use the word "fatality."

Winton, who breathed again, hurried her off to Mildenham. He had bought
her a new horse. They were in time for the last of the cubbing. And,
for a week at least, the passion for riding and the sight of hounds
carried all before it. Then, just as the real business of the season was
beginning, she began to feel dull and restless. Mildenham was dark; the
autumn winds made dreary noises. Her little brown spaniel, very old, who
seemed only to have held on to life just for her return, died. She
accused herself terribly for having left it so long when it was failing.
Thinking of all the days Lass had been watching for her to come home--as
Betty, with that love of woeful recital so dear to simple hearts, took
good care to make plain--she felt as if she had been cruel. For events
such as these, Gyp was both too tender-hearted and too hard on herself.
She was quite ill for several days. The moment she was better, Winton,
in dismay, whisked her back to Aunt Rosamund, in town. He would lose her
company, but if it did her good, took her out of herself, he would be
content. Running up for the week-end, three days later, he was relieved
to find her decidedly perked-up, and left her again with the easier
heart.

It was on the day after he went back to Mildenham that she received a
letter from Fiorsen, forwarded from Bury Street. He was--it said--just
returning to London; he had not forgotten any look she had ever given
him, or any word she had spoken. He should not rest till he could see
her again. "For a long time," the letter ended, "before I first saw you,
I was like the dead--lost. All was bitter apples to me. Now I am a ship
that comes from the whirlpools to a warm blue sea; now I see again the
evening star. I kiss your hands, and am your faithful slave--Gustav
Fiorsen." These words, which from any other man would have excited her
derision, renewed in Gyp that fluttered feeling, the pleasurable,
frightened sense that she could not get away from his pursuit.

She wrote in answer to the address he gave her in London, to say