he was of a class to whom everything has
always been a matter of course. Perhaps he did not realize this clearly
yet; but he had begun to take what the nurses call "notice," as do those
only who are forced on to the defensive against society.

Putting his latch-key into the lock, he recalled the sensation with
which, that afternoon, he had opened to Gyp for the first time--half
furtive, half defiant. It would be all defiance now. This was the end
of the old order! And, lighting a fire in his sitting-room, he began
pulling out drawers, sorting and destroying. He worked for hours,
burning, making lists, packing papers and photographs. Finishing at
last, he drank a stiff whisky and soda, and sat down to smoke. Now that
the room was quiet, Gyp seemed to fill it again with her presence.
Closing his eyes, he could see her there by the hearth, just as she stood
before they left, turning her face up to him, murmuring: "You won't stop
loving me, now you're so sure I love you?" Stop loving her! The more
she loved him, the more he would love her. And he said aloud: "By God! I
won't!" At that remark, so vehement for the time of night, the old
Scotch terrier, Ossian, came from his corner and shoved his long black
nose into his master's hand.

"Come along up, Ossy! Good dog, Oss!" And, comforted by the warmth of
that black body beside him in the chair, Summerhay fell asleep in front
of the fire smouldering with blackened fragments of his past.

XI

Though Gyp had never seemed to look round she had been quite conscious of
Summerhay still standing where they had parted, watching her into the
house in Bury Street. The strength of her own feeling surprised her, as
a bather in the sea is surprised, finding her feet will not touch bottom,
that she is carried away helpless--only, these were the waters of
ecstasy.

For the second night running, she hardly slept, hearing the clocks of St.
James's strike, and Big Ben boom, hour after hour. At breakfast, she
told her father of Fiorsen's reappearance. He received the news with a
frown and a shrewd glance.

"Well, Gyp?"

"I told him."

His feelings, at that moment, were perhaps as mixed as they had ever
been--curiosity, parental disapproval, to which he knew he was not
entitled, admiration of her pluck in letting that fellow know, fears for
the consequences of this confession, and, more than all, his profound
disturbance at knowing her at last launched into the de