that!"

Gyp smiled. She could see it all so well. The black walls, the silver
statuettes, Rops drawings, scent of dead rose-leaves and pastilles and
cigarettes--and those two by the piano--and her father so cool and dry!

"One can't stand on ceremony with fellows like that. I hadn't forgotten
that Polish chap's behaviour to you, my dear."

Through Gyp passed a quiver of dread, a vague return of the feelings
once inspired by Rosek.

"I'm almost sorry you went, Dad. Did you say anything very--"

"Did I? Let's see! No; I think I was quite polite." He added, with a
grim, little smile: "I won't swear I didn't call one of them a ruffian.
I know they said something about my presuming on being a cripple."

"Oh, darling!"

"Yes; it was that Polish chap--and so he is!"

Gyp murmured:

"I'd almost rather it had been--the other." Rosek's pale, suave face,
with the eyes behind which there were such hidden things, and the lips
sweetish and restrained and sensual--he would never forgive! But Winton
only smiled again, patting her arm. He was pleased with an encounter
which had relieved his feelings.

Gyp spent all that evening writing her first real love-letter. But
when, next afternoon at six, in fulfilment of its wording, she came to
Summerhay's little house, her heart sank; for the blinds were down and
it had a deserted look. If he had been there, he would have been at the
window, waiting. Had he, then, not got her letter, not been home since
yesterday? And that chill fear which besets lovers' hearts at failure of
a tryst smote her for the first time. In the three-cornered garden
stood a decayed statue of a naked boy with a broken bow--a sparrow was
perching on his greenish shoulder; sooty, heart-shaped lilac leaves hung
round his head, and at his legs the old Scotch terrier was sniffing. Gyp
called: "Ossian! Ossy!" and the old dog came, wagging his tail feebly.

"Master! Where is your master, dear?"

Ossian poked his long nose into her calf, and that gave her a little
comfort. She passed, perforce, away from the deserted house and returned
home; but all manner of frightened thoughts beset her. Where had he
gone? Why had he gone? Why had he not let her know? Doubts--those hasty
attendants on passion--came thronging, and scepticism ran riot. What did
she know of his life, of his interests, of him, except that he said he
loved her? Where had he gone? To Widrington, to some smart house-party,
or even back to Scotland? Th