ory of her mother, how dark are many
things! None, except Betty, had ever talked of her mother. There was
nothing sacred in Gyp's associations, no faiths to be broken by any
knowledge that might come to her; isolated from other girls, she
had little realisation even of the conventions. Still, she suffered
horribly, lying there in the dark--from bewilderment, from thorns
dragged over her skin, rather than from a stab in the heart. The
knowledge of something about her conspicuous, doubtful, provocative of
insult, as she thought, grievously hurt her delicacy. Those few
wakeful hours made a heavy mark. She fell asleep at last, still all
in confusion, and woke up with a passionate desire to KNOW. All that
morning she sat at her piano, playing, refusing to go out, frigid to
Betty and the little governess, till the former was reduced to tears
and the latter to Wordsworth. After tea she went to Winton's study, that
dingy little room where he never studied anything, with leather chairs
and books which--except "Mr. Jorrocks," Byron, those on the care of
horses, and the novels of Whyte-Melville--were never read; with prints
of superequine celebrities, his sword, and photographs of Gyp and of
brother officers on the walls. Two bright spots there were indeed--the
fire, and the little bowl that Gyp always kept filled with flowers.

When she came gliding in like that, a slender, rounded figure, her
creamy, dark-eyed, oval face all cloudy, she seemed to Winton to have
grown up of a sudden. He had known all day that something was coming,
and had been cudgelling his brains finely. From the fervour of his
love for her, he felt an anxiety that was almost fear. What could
have happened last night--that first night of her entrance into
society--meddlesome, gossiping society! She slid down to the floor
against his knee. He could not see her face, could not even touch her;
for she had settled down on his right side. He mastered his tremors and
said:

"Well, Gyp--tired?"

"No."

"A little bit?"

"No."

"Was it up to what you thought, last night?"

"Yes."

The logs hissed and crackled; the long flames ruffled in the
chimney-draught; the wind roared outside--then, so suddenly that it took
his breath away:

"Dad, are you really and truly my father?"

When that which one has always known might happen at last does happen,
how little one is prepared! In the few seconds before an answer that
could in no way be evaded, Winton had time fo