t look like that--don't be angry!"

"Why are you afraid? Are you sorry for our love?"

"No; but let it be like this. Don't let's risk anything."

"Risk? Is it people--society--you're afraid of? I thought YOU wouldn't
care."

Gyp smiled.

"Society? No; I'm not afraid of that."

"What, then? Of me?"

"I don't know. Men soon get tired. I'm a doubter, Bryan, I can't help
it."

"As if anyone could get tired of you! Are you afraid of yourself?"

Again Gyp smiled.

"Not of loving too little, I told you."

"How can one love too much?"

She drew his head down to her. But when that kiss was over, she only
said again:

"No, Bryan; let's go on as we are. I'll make up to you when I'm with
you. If you were to tire of me, I couldn't bear it."

For a long time more he pleaded--now with anger, now with kisses,
now with reasonings; but, to all, she opposed that same tender,
half-mournful "No," and, at last, he gave it up, and, in dogged silence,
rowed her to the village, whence she was to take train back. It was dusk
when they left the boat, and dew was falling. Just before they reached
the station, she caught his hand and pressed it to her breast.

"Darling, don't be angry with me! Perhaps I will--some day."

And, in the train, she tried to think herself once more in the boat,
among the shadows and the whispering reeds and all the quiet wonder of
the river.

XII

On reaching home she let herself in stealthily, and, though she had not
had dinner, went up at once to her room. She was just taking off her
blouse when Betty entered, her round face splotched with red, and tears
rolling down her cheeks.

"Betty! What is it?"

"Oh, my dear, where HAVE you been? Such a dreadful piece of news!
They've stolen her! That wicked man--your husband--he took her right
out of her pram--and went off with her in a great car--he and that other
one! I've been half out of my mind!" Gyp stared aghast. "I hollered to
a policeman. 'He's stolen her--her father! Catch them!' I said. 'However
shall I face my mistress?'" She stopped for breath, then burst
out again. "'He's a bad one,' I said. 'A foreigner! They're both
foreigners!' 'Her father?' he said. 'Well, why shouldn't he? He's only
givin' her a joy ride. He'll bring her back, never you fear.' And I
ran home--I didn't know where you were. Oh dear! The major away and
all--what was I to do? I'd just turned round to shut the gate of the
square gardens, and I never saw him till he'd