that she
was staying for a few days in Curzon Street with her aunt, who would be
glad to see him if he cared to come in any afternoon between five and
six, and signed herself "Ghita Winton." She was long over that little
note. Its curt formality gave her satisfaction. Was she really mistress
of herself--and him; able to dispose as she wished? Yes; and surely the
note showed it.

It was never easy to tell Gyp's feelings from her face; even Winton was
often baffled. Her preparation of Aunt Rosamund for the reception of
Fiorsen was a masterpiece of casualness. When he duly came, he, too,
seemed doubly alive to the need for caution, only gazing at Gyp when he
could not be seen doing so. But, going out, he whispered: "Not like
this--not like this; I must see you alone--I must!" She smiled and shook
her head. But bubbles had come back to the wine in her cup.

That evening she said quietly to Aunt Rosamund:

"Dad doesn't like Mr. Fiorsen--can't appreciate his playing, of course."

And this most discreet remark caused Aunt Rosamund, avid--in a well-bred
way--of music, to omit mention of the intruder when writing to her
brother. The next two weeks he came almost every day, always bringing
his violin, Gyp playing his accompaniments, and though his hungry stare
sometimes made her feel hot, she would have missed it.

But when Winton next came up to Bury Street, she was in a quandary. To
confess that Fiorsen was here, having omitted to speak of him in her
letters? Not to confess, and leave him to find it out from Aunt
Rosamund? Which was worse? Seized with panic, she did neither, but told
her father she was dying for a gallop. Hailing that as the best of
signs, he took her forthwith back to Mildenham. And curious were her
feelings--light-hearted, compunctious, as of one who escapes yet knows
she will soon be seeking to return. The meet was rather far next day,
but she insisted on riding to it, since old Pettance, the superannuated
jockey, charitably employed as extra stable help at Mildenham, was to
bring on her second horse. There was a good scenting-wind, with rain in
the offing, and outside the covert they had a corner to
themselves--Winton knowing a trick worth two of the field's at-large.
They had slipped there, luckily unseen, for the knowing were given to
following the one-handed horseman in faded pink, who, on his bang-tailed
black mare, had a knack of getting so well away. One of the whips, a
little da