Her eyes wandered from window to window, obeying the faint excitement
within her. All the winter and spring, she had been at Mildenham, very
quiet, riding much, and pursuing her music as best she could, seeing
hardly anyone except her father; and this departure for a spell of
London brought her the feeling that comes on an April day, when the
sky is blue, with snow-white clouds, when in the fields the lambs are
leaping, and the grass is warm for the first time, so that one would
like to roll in it. At Widrington, a porter entered, carrying a kit-bag,
an overcoat, and some golf-clubs; and round the door a little group,
such as may be seen at any English wayside station, clustered, filling
the air with their clean, slightly drawling voices. Gyp noted a tall
woman whose blonde hair was going grey, a young girl with a fox-terrier
on a lead, a young man with a Scotch terrier under his arm and his back
to the carriage. The girl was kissing the Scotch terrier's head.

"Good-bye, old Ossy! Was he nice! Tumbo, keep DOWN! YOU'RE not going!"

"Good-bye, dear boy! Don't work too hard!"

The young man's answer was not audible, but it was followed by
irrepressible gurgles and a smothered:

"Oh, Bryan, you ARE--Good-bye, dear Ossy!" "Good-bye!" "Good-bye!" The
young man who had got in, made another unintelligible joke in a rather
high-pitched voice, which was somehow familiar, and again the gurgles
broke forth. Then the train moved. Gyp caught a side view of him,
waving his hat from the carriage window. It was her acquaintance of the
hunting-field--the "Mr. Bryn Summer'ay," as old Pettance called him, who
had bought her horse last year. Seeing him pull down his overcoat, to
bank up the old Scotch terrier against the jolting of the journey, she
thought: 'I like men who think first of their dogs.' His round head,
with curly hair, broad brow, and those clean-cut lips, gave her again
the wonder: 'Where HAVE I seen someone like him?' He raised the window,
and turned round.

"How would you like--Oh, how d'you do! We met out hunting. You don't
remember me, I expect."

"Yes; perfectly. And you bought my horse last summer. How is he?"

"In great form. I forgot to ask what you called him; I've named him
Hotspur--he'll never be steady at his fences. I remember how he pulled
with you that day."

They were silent, smiling, as people will in remembrance of a good run.

Then, looking at the dog, Gyp said softly:

"HE looks rather a dar