e had
only lost herself. Already she felt in prison, and by a child would be
all the more bound. To some women, the knowledge that a thing must be
brings assuagement of the nerves. Gyp was the opposite of those. To
force her was the way to stiver up every contrary emotion. She might
will herself to acquiesce, but--one cannot change one's nature.

And so, while the pigeons cooed and the sunlight warmed her feet, she
spent the bitterest moments of her life--so far. Pride came to her help.
She had made a miserable mess of it, but no one must know--certainly not
her father, who had warned her so desperately! She had made her bed, and
she would have to lie on it.

When Winton came back, he found her smiling, and said:

"I don't see the fascination, Gyp."

"Don't you think her face really rather perfect?"

"Common."

"Yes; but that drops off when she's dancing."

Winton looked at her from under half-closed eyelids.

"With her clothes? What does Fiorsen think of her?"

Gyp smiled.

"Does he think of her? I don't know."

She could feel the watchful tightening of his face. And suddenly he
said:

"Daphne Wing! By George!"

The words were a masterpiece of resentment and distrust. His daughter in
peril from--such as that!

After he was gone Gyp sat on till the sun had quite vanished and the dew
was stealing through her thin frock. She would think of anything,
anybody except herself! To make others happy was the way to be happy--or
so they said. She would try--must try. Betty--so stout, and with that
rheumatism in her leg--did she ever think of herself? Or Aunt Rosamund,
with her perpetual rescuings of lost dogs, lame horses, and penniless
musicians? And Dad, for all his man-of-the-world ways, was he not always
doing little things for the men of his old regiment, always thinking of
her, too, and what he could do to give her pleasure? To love everybody,
and bring them happiness! Was it not possible? Only, people were hard
to love, different from birds and beasts and flowers, to love which
seemed natural and easy.

She went up to her room and began to dress for dinner. Which of her
frocks did he like best? The pale, low-cut amber, or that white, soft
one, with the coffee-dipped lace? She decided on the latter.
Scrutinizing her supple, slender image in the glass, a shudder went
through her. That would all go; she would be like those women taking
careful exercise in the streets, who made her w