drowned hair, and the sun silvering her wet
body. If she had loved him, it would have been perfect. But though,
close to nature like this--there are men to whom towns are poison--he
was so much more easy to bear, even to like, her heart never opened
to him, never fluttered at his voice, or beat more quickly under his
kisses. One cannot regulate these things. The warmth in her eyes when
they looked at her baby, and the coolness when they looked at him,
was such that not even a man, and he an egoist, could help seeing; and
secretly he began to hate that tiny rival, and she began to notice that
he did.

As soon as the weather broke, he grew restless, craving his violin, and
they went back to town, in robust health--all three. During those weeks,
Gyp had never been free of the feeling that it was just a lull, of
forces held up in suspense, and the moment they were back in their
house, this feeling gathered density and darkness, as rain gathers in
the sky after a fine spell. She had often thought of Daphne Wing, and
had written twice, getting in return one naive and pathetic answer:

'DEAR MRS. FIORSEN,

'Oh, it is kind of you to write, because I know what you must be feeling
about me; and it was so kind of you to let me come here. I try not to
think about things, but of course I can't help it; and I don't seem to
care what happens now. Mother is coming down here later on. Sometimes I
lie awake all night, listening to the wind. Don't you think the wind is
the most melancholy thing in the world? I wonder if I shall die? I hope
I shall. Oh, I do, really! Good-bye, dear Mrs. Fiorsen. I shall never
forgive myself about you.

'Your grateful,

'DAPHNE WING.'

The girl had never once been mentioned between her and Fiorsen since
the night when he sat by her bed, begging forgiveness; she did not know
whether he ever gave the little dancer and her trouble a thought, or
even knew what had become of her. But now that the time was getting
near, Gyp felt more and more every day as if she must go down and see
her. She wrote to her father, who, after a dose of Harrogate with Aunt
Rosamund, was back at Mildenham. Winton answered that the nurse was
there, and that there seemed to be a woman, presumably the mother,
staying with her, but that he had not of course made direct inquiry.
Could not Gyp come down? He was alone, and cubbing had begun. It was
like him to veil his longings under such dry statements. But the thought
of givin