was it?"

"A second cousin. Diana Leyton."

"Do you know her very well?"

"Oh yes--used to."

"And do you like her very much?"

"Rather!"

He looked round into her face, with laughter bubbling up behind his
gravity. Ah, but could one tease on such a subject as their love? And to
this day the figure of that tall girl with the burning-white skin, the
burning-brown eyes, the burning-red hair was not quite a pleasant memory
to Gyp. After that night, they gave up all attempt to hide their union,
going to whatever they wished, whether they were likely to meet people or
not. Gyp found that nothing was so easily ignored as Society when the
heart was set on other things. Besides, they were seldom in London, and
in the country did not wish to know anyone, in any case. But she never
lost the feeling that what was ideal for her might not be ideal for him.
He ought to go into the world, ought to meet people. It would not do for
him to be cut off from social pleasures and duties, and then some day
feel that he owed his starvation to her. To go up to London, too, every
day was tiring, and she persuaded him to take a set of residential
chambers in the Temple, and sleep there three nights a week. In spite of
all his entreaties, she herself never went to those chambers, staying
always at Bury Street when she came up. A kind of superstition prevented
her; she would not risk making him feel that she was hanging round his
neck. Besides, she wanted to keep herself desirable--so little a matter
of course that he would hanker after her when he was away. And she never
asked him where he went or whom he saw. But, sometimes, she wondered
whether he could still be quite faithful to her in thought, love her as
he used to; and joy would go down behind a heavy bank of clouds, till, at
his return, the sun came out again. Love such as hers--passionate,
adoring, protective, longing to sacrifice itself, to give all that it had
to him, yet secretly demanding all his love in return--for how could a
proud woman love one who did not love her?--such love as this is always
longing for a union more complete than it is likely to get in a world
where all things move and change. But against the grip of this love she
never dreamed of fighting now. From the moment when she knew she must
cling to him rather than to her baby, she had made no reservations; all
her eggs were in one basket, as her father's had been before her--all!

The moonlight wa