ing those weeks,
Gyp had never been free of the feeling that it was just a lull, of forces
held up in suspense, and the moment they were back in their house, this
feeling gathered density and darkness, as rain gathers in the sky after a
fine spell. She had often thought of Daphne Wing, and had written twice,
getting in return one naive and pathetic answer:

'DEAR MRS. FIORSEN,

'Oh, it is kind of you to write, because I know what you must be feeling
about me; and it was so kind of you to let me come here. I try not to
think about things, but of course I can't help it; and I don't seem to
care what happens now. Mother is coming down here later on. Sometimes I
lie awake all night, listening to the wind. Don't you think the wind is
the most melancholy thing in the world? I wonder if I shall die? I hope
I shall. Oh, I do, really! Good-bye, dear Mrs. Fiorsen. I shall never
forgive myself about you.

'Your grateful,
'DAPHNE WING.'

The girl had never once been mentioned between her and Fiorsen since the
night when he sat by her bed, begging forgiveness; she did not know
whether he ever gave the little dancer and her trouble a thought, or even
knew what had become of her. But now that the time was getting near, Gyp
felt more and more every day as if she must go down and see her. She
wrote to her father, who, after a dose of Harrogate with Aunt Rosamund,
was back at Mildenham. Winton answered that the nurse was there, and that
there seemed to be a woman, presumably the mother, staying with her, but
that he had not of course made direct inquiry. Could not Gyp come down?
He was alone, and cubbing had begun. It was like him to veil his
longings under such dry statements. But the thought of giving him
pleasure, and of a gallop with hounds fortified intensely her feeling
that she ought to go. Now that baby was so well, and Fiorsen still not
drinking, she might surely snatch this little holiday and satisfy her
conscience about the girl. Since the return from Cornwall, she had
played for him in the music-room just as of old, and she chose the finish
of a morning practice to say:

"Gustav, I want to go to Mildenham this afternoon for a week. Father's
lonely."

He was putting away his violin, but she saw his neck grow red.

"To him? No. He will steal you as he stole the baby. Let him have the
baby if he likes. Not you. No."

Gyp, who was standing by the piano, kept silence at this unexpected
outburst, but