e, so that one would like to roll in it.
At Widrington, a porter entered, carrying a kit-bag, an overcoat, and
some golf-clubs; and round the door a little group, such as may be seen
at any English wayside station, clustered, filling the air with their
clean, slightly drawling voices. Gyp noted a tall woman whose blonde
hair was going grey, a young girl with a fox-terrier on a lead, a young
man with a Scotch terrier under his arm and his back to the carriage.
The girl was kissing the Scotch terrier's head.

"Good-bye, old Ossy! Was he nice! Tumbo, keep DOWN! YOU'RE not going!"

"Good-bye, dear boy! Don't work too hard!"

The young man's answer was not audible, but it was followed by
irrepressible gurgles and a smothered:

"Oh, Bryan, you ARE--Good-bye, dear Ossy!" "Good-bye!" "Good-bye!" The
young man who had got in, made another unintelligible joke in a rather
high-pitched voice, which was somehow familiar, and again the gurgles
broke forth. Then the train moved. Gyp caught a side view of him,
waving his hat from the carriage window. It was her acquaintance of the
hunting-field--the "Mr. Bryn Summer'ay," as old Pettance called him, who
had bought her horse last year. Seeing him pull down his overcoat, to
bank up the old Scotch terrier against the jolting of the journey, she
thought: 'I like men who think first of their dogs.' His round head,
with curly hair, broad brow, and those clean-cut lips, gave her again the
wonder: 'Where HAVE I seen someone like him?' He raised the window, and
turned round.

"How would you like--Oh, how d'you do! We met out hunting. You don't
remember me, I expect."

"Yes; perfectly. And you bought my horse last summer. How is he?"

"In great form. I forgot to ask what you called him; I've named him
Hotspur--he'll never be steady at his fences. I remember how he pulled
with you that day."

They were silent, smiling, as people will in remembrance of a good run.

Then, looking at the dog, Gyp said softly:

"HE looks rather a darling. How old?"

"Twelve. Beastly when dogs get old!"

There was another little silence while he contemplated her steadily with
his clear eyes.

"I came over to call once--with my mother; November the year before last.
Somebody was ill."

"Yes--I."

"Badly?"

Gyp shook her head.

"I heard you were married--" The little drawl in his voice had
increased, as though covering the abruptness of that remark. Gyp looked
up.

"Yes; bu