oncealed
from Gyp, so he accepted their invitation without alacrity, and they
walked on up the hill, with little Gyp in the middle, supported by a hand
on each side.

The Red House contained nothing that had been in Gyp's married home
except the piano. It had white walls, furniture of old oak, and for
pictures reproductions of her favourites. "The Death of Procris" hung in
the dining-room. Winton never failed to scrutinize it when he came in to
a meal--that "deuced rum affair" appeared to have a fascination for him.
He approved of the dining-room altogether; its narrow oak "last supper"
table made gay by a strip of blue linen, old brick hearth, casement
windows hung with flowered curtains--all had a pleasing austerity,
uncannily redeemed to softness. He got on well enough with Summerhay,
but he enjoyed himself much more when he was there alone with his
daughter. And this evening he was especially glad to have her to
himself, for she had seemed of late rather grave and absent-minded. When
dinner was over and they were undisturbed, he said:

"It must be pretty dull for you, my dear, sometimes. I wish you saw more
people."

"Oh no, Dad."

Watching her smile, he thought: 'That's not sour grapes"--What is the
trouble, then?'

"I suppose you've not heard anything of that fellow Fiorsen lately?"

"Not a word. But he's playing again in London this season, I see."

"Is he? Ah, that'll cheer them." And he thought: 'It's not that, then.
But there's something--I'll swear!'

"I hear that Bryan's going ahead. I met a man in town last week who
spoke of him as about the most promising junior at the bar."

"Yes; he's doing awfully well." And a sound like a faint sigh caught his
ears. "Would you say he's changed much since you knew him, Dad?"

"I don't know--perhaps a little less jokey."

"Yes; he's lost his laugh."

It was very evenly and softly said, yet it affected Winton.

"Can't expect him to keep that," he answered, "turning people inside out,
day after day--and most of them rotten. By George, what a life!"

But when he had left her, strolling back in the bright moonlight, he
reverted to his suspicions and wished he had said more directly: "Look
here, Gyp, are you worrying about Bryan--or have people been making
themselves unpleasant?"

He had, in these last three years, become unconsciously inimical to his
own class and their imitators, and more than ever friendly to the
poor--visiting the labourer