girl, and this
without any difficulty. How disconcerting! But, then, truth is.

From that queer seesawing of his feelings, he fell asleep, dreamed of all
things under the sun as men only can in a train, was awakened by the
hollow silence in some station, slept again for hours, it seemed, and
woke still at the same station, fell into a sound sleep at last that
ended at Willesden in broad daylight. Dressing hurriedly, he found he had
but one emotion now, one longing--to get to Gyp. Sitting back in his
cab, hands deep-thrust into the pockets of his ulster, he smiled,
enjoying even the smell of the misty London morning. Where would she
be--in the hall of the hotel waiting, or upstairs still?

Not in the hall! And asking for her room, he made his way to its door.

She was standing in the far corner motionless, deadly pale, quivering
from head to foot; and when he flung his arms round her, she gave a long
sigh, closing her eyes. With his lips on hers, he could feel her almost
fainting; and he too had no consciousness of anything but that long kiss.

Next day, they went abroad to a little place not far from Fecamp, in that
Normandy countryside where all things are large--the people, the beasts,
the unhedged fields, the courtyards of the farms guarded so squarely by
tall trees, the skies, the sea, even the blackberries large. And Gyp was
happy. But twice there came letters, in that too-well-remembered
handwriting, which bore a Scottish postmark. A phantom increases in
darkness, solidifies when seen in mist. Jealousy is rooted not in
reason, but in the nature that feels it--in her nature that loved
desperately, felt proudly. And jealousy flourishes on scepticism. Even
if pride would have let her ask, what good? She would not have believed
the answers. Of course he would say--if only out of pity--that he never
let his thoughts rest on another woman. But, after all, it was only a
phantom. There were many hours in those three weeks when she felt he
really loved her, and so--was happy.

They went back to the Red House at the end of the first week in October.
Little Gyp, home from the sea, was now an almost accomplished horsewoman.
Under the tutelage of old Pettance, she had been riding steadily round
and round those rough fields by the linhay which they called "the wild,"
her firm brown legs astride of the mouse-coloured pony, her little brown
face, with excited, dark eyes, very erect, her auburn crop of short cur