trees, in the warm air! Why was he not among
these passers-by? She who could bring any casual man to her side by a
smile could not conjure up the only one she wanted from this great desert
of a town! She hurried along, to get in and hide her longing. But at
the corner of St. James's Street, she stopped. That was his club, nearly
opposite. Perhaps he was there, playing cards or billiards, a few yards
away, and yet as in another world. Presently he would come out, go to
some music-hall, or stroll home thinking of her--perhaps not even
thinking of her! Another woman passed, giving her a furtive glance. But
Gyp felt no glee now. And, crossing over, close under the windows of the
club, she hurried home. When she reached her room, she broke into a
storm of tears. How could she have liked hurting those poor women,
hurting that man--who was only paying her a man's compliment, after all?
And with these tears, her jealous, wild feelings passed, leaving only her
longing.

Next morning brought a letter. Summerhay wrote from an inn on the river,
asking her to come down by the eleven o'clock train, and he would meet
her at the station. He wanted to show her a house that he had seen; and
they could have the afternoon on the river! Gyp received this letter,
which began: "My darling!" with an ecstasy that she could not quite
conceal. And Winton, who had watched her face, said presently:

"I think I shall go to Newmarket, Gyp. Home to-morrow evening."

In the train on the way down, she sat with closed eyes, in a sort of
trance. If her lover had been there holding her in his arms, he could
not have seemed nearer.

She saw him as the train ran in; but they met without a hand-clasp,
without a word, simply looking at each other and breaking into smiles.

A little victoria "dug up"--as Summerhay said--"horse, driver and all,"
carried them slowly upward. Under cover of the light rugs their hands
were clasped, and they never ceased to look into each other's faces,
except for those formal glances of propriety which deceive no one.

The day was beautiful, as only early September days can be--when the sun
is hot, yet not too hot, and its light falls in a silken radiance on
trees just losing the opulent monotony of summer, on silvery-gold reaped
fields, silvery-green uplands, golden mustard; when shots ring out in the
distance, and, as one gazes, a leaf falls, without reason, as it would
seem. Presently they branched off the