ell
in evening clothes. When he sat down, she could still see just a little
of his profile; and, vaguely watching the stout Santuzza and the stouter
Turiddu, she wondered whether, by fixing her eyes on him, she could make
him turn and see her. Just then he did see her, and his face lighted up.
She smiled back. Why not? She had not so many friends nowadays. But it
was rather startling to find, after that exchange of looks, that she at
once began to want another. Would he like her dress? Was her hair nice?
She wished she had not had it washed that morning. But when the interval
came, she did not look round, until his voice said:

"How d'you do, Major Winton? Oh, how d'you do?"

Winton had been told of the meeting in the train. He was pining for a
cigarette, but had not liked to desert his daughter. After a few
remarks, he got up and said:

"Take my pew a minute, Summerhay, I'm going to have a smoke."

He went out, thinking, not for the first time by a thousand: 'Poor child,
she never sees a soul! Twenty-five, pretty as paint, and clean out of
the running. What the devil am I to do about her?'

Summerhay sat down. Gyp had a queer feeling, then, as if the
house and people vanished, and they two were back again in the
railway-carriage--alone together. Ten minutes to make the most of! To
smile and talk, and enjoy the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice
and laugh. To laugh, too, and be warm and nice to him. Why not? They
were friends. And, presently, she said, smiling:

"Oh, by the way, there's a picture in the National Gallery, I want you to
look at."

"Yes? Which? Will you take me?"

"If you like."

"To-morrow's Saturday; may I meet you there? What time? Three?"

Gyp nodded. She knew she was flushing, and, at that moment, with the
warmth in her cheeks and the smile in her eyes, she had the sensation, so
rare and pleasant, of feeling beautiful. Then he was gone! Her father
was slipping back into his stall; and, afraid of her own face, she
touched his arm, and murmured:

"Dad, do look at that head-dress in the next row but one; did you ever
see anything so delicious!"

And while Winton was star-gazing, the orchestra struck up the overture to
"Pagliacci." Watching that heart-breaking little plot unfold, Gyp had
something more than the old thrill, as if for the first time she
understood it with other than her aesthetic sense. Poor Nedda! and poor
Canio! Poor Silvio! Her breast hea