ith an unexpectedness that even little Gyp could always see through, he
rolled backward on to the bed.

And she, simulating "all the king's horses," tried in vain to put him up
again. This immemorial game, watched by Gyp a hundred times, had to-day
a special preciousness. If he could be so ridiculously young, what
became of her doubts? Looking at his face pulled this way and that,
lazily imperturbable under the pommelings of those small fingers, she
thought: 'And that girl dared to say he was WASTING HIMSELF!' For in the
night conviction had come to her that those words were written by the
tall girl with the white skin, the girl of the theatre--the Diana of his
last night's dinner. Humpty-Dumpty was up on the bed-rail again for the
finale; all the king's horses were clasped to him, making the egg more
round, and over they both went with shrieks and gurgles. What a boy he
was! She would not--no, she would not brood and spoil her day with him.

But that afternoon, at the end of a long gallop on the downs, she turned
her head away and said suddenly:

"Is she a huntress?"

"Who?"

"Your cousin--Diana."

In his laziest voice, he answered:

"I suppose you mean--does she hunt me?"

She knew that tone, that expression on his face, knew he was angry; but
could not stop herself.

"I did."

"So you're going to become jealous, Gyp?"

It was one of those cold, naked sayings that should never be spoken
between lovers--one of those sayings at which the heart of the one who
speaks sinks with a kind of dismay, and the heart of the one who hears
quivers. She cantered on. And he, perforce, after her. When she reined
in again, he glanced into her face and was afraid. It was all closed up
against him. And he said softly:

"I didn't mean that, Gyp."

But she only shook her head. He HAD meant it--had wanted to hurt her! It
didn't matter--she wouldn't give him the chance again. And she said:

"Look at that long white cloud, and the apple-green in the sky--rain
to-morrow. One ought to enjoy any fine day as if it were the last."

Uneasy, ashamed, yet still a little angry, Summerhay rode on beside her.

That night, she cried in her sleep; and, when he awakened her, clung to
him and sobbed out:

"Oh! such a dreadful dream! I thought you'd left off loving me!"

For a long time he held and soothed her. Never, never! He would never
leave off loving her!

But a cloud no broader than your hand can spread and cover the whole
day