ased,
but the wind still blew strong from the sou'west, and the sky was torn
and driven in swathes of white and grey to north, south, east, and west,
and puffs of what looked like smoke scurried across the cloud banks and
the glacier-blue rifts between. The mare had not been out the day
before, and on the springy turf stretched herself in that thoroughbred
gallop which bears a rider up, as it were, on air, till nothing but the
thud of hoofs, the grass flying by, the beating of the wind in her face
betrayed to Gyp that she was moving. For full two miles they went
without a pull, only stopped at last by the finish of the level. From
there, one could see far--away over to Wittenham Clumps across the
Valley, and to the high woods above the river in the east--away, in the
south and west, under that strange, torn sky, to a whole autumn land, of
whitish grass, bare fields, woods of grey and gold and brown, fast being
pillaged. But all that sweep of wind, and sky, freshness of rain, and
distant colour could not drive out of Gyp's heart the hopeless aching and
the devil begotten of it.

VIII

There are men who, however well-off--either in money or love--must
gamble. Their affections may be deeply rooted, but they cannot repulse
fate when it tantalizes them with a risk.

Summerhay, who loved Gyp, was not tired of her either physically or
mentally, and even felt sure he would never tire, had yet dallied for
months with this risk which yesterday had come to a head. And now,
taking his seat in the train to return to her, he felt unquiet; and since
he resented disquietude, he tried defiantly to think of other things, but
he was very unsuccessful. Looking back, it was difficult for him to tell
when the snapping of his defences had begun. A preference shown by one
accustomed to exact preference is so insidious. The girl, his cousin,
was herself a gambler. He did not respect her as he respected Gyp; she
did not touch him as Gyp touched him, was not--no, not half--so deeply
attractive; but she had--confound her! the power of turning his head at
moments, a queer burning, skin-deep fascination, and, above all, that
most dangerous quality in a woman--the lure of an imperious vitality. In
love with life, she made him feel that he was letting things slip by.
And since to drink deep of life was his nature, too--what chance had he
of escape? Far-off cousinhood is a dangerous relationship. Its
familiarity is not great enoug