oftness. He got on well enough with Summerhay,
but he enjoyed himself much more when he was there alone with his
daughter. And this evening he was especially glad to have her to
himself, for she had seemed of late rather grave and absent-minded. When
dinner was over and they were undisturbed, he said:

"It must be pretty dull for you, my dear, sometimes. I wish you saw more
people."

"Oh no, Dad."

Watching her smile, he thought: 'That's not sour grapes"--What is the
trouble, then?'

"I suppose you've not heard anything of that fellow Fiorsen lately?"

"Not a word. But he's playing again in London this season, I see."

"Is he? Ah, that'll cheer them." And he thought: 'It's not that, then.
But there's something--I'll swear!'

"I hear that Bryan's going ahead. I met a man in town last week who
spoke of him as about the most promising junior at the bar."

"Yes; he's doing awfully well." And a sound like a faint sigh caught his
ears. "Would you say he's changed much since you knew him, Dad?"

"I don't know--perhaps a little less jokey."

"Yes; he's lost his laugh."

It was very evenly and softly said, yet it affected Winton.

"Can't expect him to keep that," he answered, "turning people inside
out, day after day--and most of them rotten. By George, what a life!"

But when he had left her, strolling back in the bright moonlight, he
reverted to his suspicions and wished he had said more directly: "Look
here, Gyp, are you worrying about Bryan--or have people been making
themselves unpleasant?"

He had, in these last three years, become unconsciously inimical to
his own class and their imitators, and more than ever friendly to the
poor--visiting the labourers, small farmers, and small tradesmen, doing
them little turns when he could, giving their children sixpences, and
so forth. The fact that they could not afford to put on airs of virtue
escaped him; he perceived only that they were respectful and friendly
to Gyp and this warmed his heart toward them in proportion as he grew
exasperated with the two or three landed families, and that parvenu lot
in the riverside villas.

When he first came down, the chief landowner--a man he had known for
years--had invited him to lunch. He had accepted with the deliberate
intention of finding out where he was, and had taken the first natural
opportunity of mentioning his daughter. She was, he said, devoted to
her flowers; the Red House had quite a good garden. His friend's