at a time. Gyp had seen
Summerhay long before he saw her; seen him come in and fold his opera
hat against his white waistcoat, looking round, as if for--someone. Her
eyes criticized him in this new garb--his broad head, and its crisp,
dark, shining hair, his air of sturdy, lazy, lovable audacity. He looked
well in evening clothes. When he sat down, she could still see just a
little of his profile; and, vaguely watching the stout Santuzza and the
stouter Turiddu, she wondered whether, by fixing her eyes on him, she
could make him turn and see her. Just then he did see her, and his
face lighted up. She smiled back. Why not? She had not so many friends
nowadays. But it was rather startling to find, after that exchange of
looks, that she at once began to want another. Would he like her dress?
Was her hair nice? She wished she had not had it washed that morning.
But when the interval came, she did not look round, until his voice
said:

"How d'you do, Major Winton? Oh, how d'you do?"

Winton had been told of the meeting in the train. He was pining for
a cigarette, but had not liked to desert his daughter. After a few
remarks, he got up and said:

"Take my pew a minute, Summerhay, I'm going to have a smoke."

He went out, thinking, not for the first time by a thousand: 'Poor
child, she never sees a soul! Twenty-five, pretty as paint, and clean
out of the running. What the devil am I to do about her?'

Summerhay sat down. Gyp had a queer feeling, then, as if the house
and people vanished, and they two were back again in the
railway-carriage--alone together. Ten minutes to make the most of! To
smile and talk, and enjoy the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice
and laugh. To laugh, too, and be warm and nice to him. Why not? They
were friends. And, presently, she said, smiling:

"Oh, by the way, there's a picture in the National Gallery, I want you
to look at."

"Yes? Which? Will you take me?"

"If you like."

"To-morrow's Saturday; may I meet you there? What time? Three?"

Gyp nodded. She knew she was flushing, and, at that moment, with the
warmth in her cheeks and the smile in her eyes, she had the sensation,
so rare and pleasant, of feeling beautiful. Then he was gone! Her father
was slipping back into his stall; and, afraid of her own face, she
touched his arm, and murmured:

"Dad, do look at that head-dress in the next row but one; did you ever
see anything so delicious!"

And while Winton was star-gazing,