that.'

Lady Summerhay was looking at her fixedly.

"One doesn't realize these things at first--neither of you will, till
you see how dreadfully Society can cold-shoulder."

Gyp made an effort to control a smile.

"One can only be cold-shouldered if one puts oneself in the way of it.
I should never wish to see or speak to anyone who couldn't take me just
for what I am. And I don't really see what difference it will make to
Bryan; most men of his age have someone, somewhere." She felt malicious
pleasure watching her visitor jib and frown at the cynicism of that
soft speech; a kind of hatred had come on her of this society woman,
who--disguise it as she would--was at heart her enemy, who regarded her,
must regard her, as an enslaver, as a despoiler of her son's worldly
chances, a Delilah dragging him down. She said still more quietly: "He
need tell no one of my existence; and you can be quite sure that if ever
he feels he's had enough of me, he'll never be troubled by the sight of
me again."

And she got up. Lady Summerhay also rose.

"I hope you don't think--I really am only too anxious to--"

"I think it's better to be quite frank. You will never like me, or
forgive me for ensnaring Bryan. And so it had better be, please, as it
would be if I were just his common mistress. That will be perfectly all
right for both of us. It was very good of you to come, though. Thank
you--and good-bye."

Lady Summerhay literally faltered with speech and hand.

With a malicious smile, Gyp watched her retirement among the little
tables and elaborately modern chairs till her tall figure had
disappeared behind a column. Then she sat down again on the lounge,
pressing her hands to her burning ears. She had never till then known
the strength of the pride-demon within her; at the moment, it was almost
stronger than her love. She was still sitting there, when the page-boy
brought her another card--her father's. She sprang up saying:

"Yes, here, please."

Winton came in all brisk and elated at sight of her after this long
absence; and, throwing her arms round his neck, she hugged him tight. He
was doubly precious to her after the encounter she had just gone though.
When he had given her news of Mildenham and little Gyp, he looked at her
steadily, and said:

"The coast'll be clear for you both down there, and at Bury Street,
whenever you like to come, Gyp. I shall regard this as your real
marriage. I shall have the servants in and