nder, Gyp passed straight into a state the more
enchanted because she had never believed in it, had never thought that
she could love as she now loved. Days and nights went by in a sort of
dream, and when Summerhay was not with her, she was simply waiting with
a smile on her lips for the next hour of meeting. Just as she had never
felt it possible to admit the world into the secrets of her married
life, so, now she did not consider the world at all. Only the thought of
her father weighed on her conscience. He was back in town. And she felt
that she must tell him. When Summerhay heard this he only said: "All
right, Gyp, whatever you think best."

And two days before her month at the bungalow was up, she went, leaving
Betty and little Gyp to follow on the last day. Winton, pale and
somewhat languid, as men are when they have been cured, found her when
he came in from the club. She had put on evening dress, and above the
pallor of her shoulders, her sunwarmed face and throat had almost the
colour of a nectarine. He had never seen her look like that, never seen
her eyes so full of light. And he uttered a quiet grunt of satisfaction.
It was as if a flower, which he had last seen in close and elegant
shape, had bloomed in full perfection. She did not meet his gaze quite
steadily and all that evening kept putting her confession off and
off. It was not easy--far from easy. At last, when he was smoking his
"go-to-bed" cigarette, she took a cushion and sank down on it beside his
chair, leaning against his knee, where her face was hidden from him,
as on that day after her first ball, when she had listened to HIS
confession. And she began:

"Dad, do you remember my saying once that I didn't understand what you
and my mother felt for each other?" Winton did not speak; misgiving had
taken possession of him. Gyp went on: "I know now how one would rather
die than give someone up."

Winton drew his breath in sharply:

"Who? Summerhay?"

"Yes; I used to think I should never be in love, but you knew better."

Better!

In disconsolate silence, he thought rapidly: 'What's to be done? What
can I do? Get her a divorce?'

Perhaps because of the ring in her voice, or the sheer seriousness of
the position, he did not feel resentment as when he lost her to Fiorsen.
Love! A passion such as had overtaken her mother and himself! And this
young man? A decent fellow, a good rider--comprehensible! Ah, if the
course had only been clear! He put