e jealous feelings that had so besieged her
at the bungalow when his letters ceased came again now with redoubled
force. There must be some woman who, before their love began, had claim
on him, or some girl that he admired. He never told her of any such--of
course, he would not! She was amazed and hurt by her capacity for
jealousy. She had always thought she would be too proud to feel
jealousy--a sensation so dark and wretched and undignified,
but--alas!--so horribly real and clinging.

She had said she was not dining at home; so Winton had gone to his club,
and she was obliged to partake of a little trumped-up lonely meal. She
went up to her room after it, but there came on her such restlessness
that presently she put on her things and slipped out. She went past St.
James's Church into Piccadilly, to the further, crowded side, and began
to walk toward the park. This was foolish; but to do a foolish thing
was some relief, and she went along with a faint smile, mocking her
own recklessness. Several women of the town--ships of night with sails
set--came rounding out of side streets or down the main stream,
with their skilled, rapid-seeming slowness. And at the discomfited,
half-hostile stares on their rouged and powdered faces, Gyp felt a
wicked glee. She was disturbing, hurting them--and she wanted to hurt.

Presently, a man, in evening dress, with overcoat thrown open, gazed
pointblank into her face, and, raising his hat, ranged up beside her.
She walked straight on, still with that half-smile, knowing him puzzled
and fearfully attracted. Then an insensate wish to stab him to the heart
made her turn her head and look at him. At the expression on her face,
he wilted away from her, and again she felt that wicked glee at having
hurt him.

She crossed out into the traffic, to the park side, and turned back
toward St. James's; and now she was possessed by profound, black
sadness. If only her lover were beside her that beautiful evening, among
the lights and shadows of the trees, in the warm air! Why was he not
among these passers-by? She who could bring any casual man to her side
by a smile could not conjure up the only one she wanted from this great
desert of a town! She hurried along, to get in and hide her longing.
But at the corner of St. James's Street, she stopped. That was his club,
nearly opposite. Perhaps he was there, playing cards or billiards, a few
yards away, and yet as in another world. Presently he would co