"Don't cry, Gyp; don't cry!"

She ceased as suddenly as she had begun, got up, and, before he too
could rise, was gone.

That evening, at dinner, she was just as usual. He could not detect the
slightest difference in her voice or manner, or in her good-night kiss.
And so a moment that he had dreaded for years was over, leaving only the
faint shame which follows a breach of reticence on the spirits of those
who worship it. While the old secret had been quite undisclosed, it had
not troubled him. Disclosed, it hurt him. But Gyp, in those twenty-four
hours, had left childhood behind for good; her feeling toward men had
hardened. If she did not hurt them a little, they would hurt her! The
sex-instinct had come to life. To Winton she gave as much love as ever,
even more, perhaps; but the dew was off.

III

The next two years were much less solitary, passed in more or less
constant gaiety. His confession spurred Winton on to the fortification
of his daughter's position. He would stand no nonsense, would not have
her looked on askance. There is nothing like "style" for carrying the
defences of society--only, it must be the genuine thing. Whether at
Mildenham, or in London under the wing of his sister, there was no
difficulty. Gyp was too pretty, Winton too cool, his quietness too
formidable. She had every advantage. Society only troubles itself to
make front against the visibly weak.

The happiest time of a girl's life is that when all appreciate and covet
her, and she herself is free as air--a queen of hearts, for none of
which she hankers; or, if not the happiest, at all events it is the
gayest time. What did Gyp care whether hearts ached for her--she knew
not love as yet, perhaps would never know the pains of unrequited
love. Intoxicated with life, she led her many admirers a pretty dance,
treating them with a sort of bravura. She did not want them to be
unhappy, but she simply could not take them seriously. Never was any
girl so heart-free. She was a queer mixture in those days, would give
up any pleasure for Winton, and most for Betty or her aunt--her little
governess was gone--but of nobody else did she seem to take account,
accepting all that was laid at her feet as the due of her looks, her
dainty frocks, her music, her good riding and dancing, her talent for
amateur theatricals and mimicry. Winton, whom at least she never failed,
watched that glorious fluttering with quiet pride and satisfaction. He
was get