die of it, as her own mother had died. She set
her teeth, listening to that grown-up child revolting against what he had
brought on her, and touched his hand, protectingly.

It interested, even amused her this night and next day to watch his
treatment of the disconcerting piece of knowledge. For when at last he
realized that he had to acquiesce in nature, he began, as she had known
he would, to jib away from all reminder of it. She was careful not to
suggest that he should go away without her, knowing his perversity. But
when he proposed that she should come to Ostend with him and Rosek, she
answered, after seeming deliberation, that she thought she had better
not--she would rather stay at home quite quietly; but he must certainly
go and get a good holiday.

When he was really gone, peace fell on Gyp--peace such as one feels,
having no longer the tight, banded sensations of a fever. To be without
that strange, disorderly presence in the house! When she woke in the
sultry silence of the next morning, she utterly failed to persuade
herself that she was missing him, missing the sound of his breathing, the
sight of his rumpled hair on the pillow, the outline of his long form
under the sheet. Her heart was devoid of any emptiness or ache; she only
felt how pleasant and cool and tranquil it was to lie there alone. She
stayed quite late in bed. It was delicious, with window and door wide
open and the puppies running in and out, to lie and doze off, or listen
to the pigeons' cooing, and the distant sounds of traffic, and feel in
command once more of herself, body and soul. Now that she had told
Fiorsen, she had no longer any desire to keep her condition secret.
Feeling that it would hurt her father to learn of it from anyone but
herself, she telephoned to tell him she was alone, and asked if she might
come to Bury Street and dine with him.

Winton had not gone away, because, between Goodwood and Doncaster there
was no racing that he cared for; one could not ride at this time of year,
so might just as well be in London. In fact, August was perhaps the
pleasantest of all months in town; the club was empty, and he could sit
there without some old bore buttonholing him. Little Boncarte, the
fencing-master, was always free for a bout--Winton had long learned to
make his left hand what his right hand used to be; the Turkish baths in
Jermyn Street were nearly void of their fat clients; he could saunter
over to Covent Gar