Normandy countryside where all things are large--the people, the
beasts, the unhedged fields, the courtyards of the farms guarded so
squarely by tall trees, the skies, the sea, even the blackberries
large. And Gyp was happy. But twice there came letters, in that
too-well-remembered handwriting, which bore a Scottish postmark. A
phantom increases in darkness, solidifies when seen in mist. Jealousy
is rooted not in reason, but in the nature that feels it--in her
nature that loved desperately, felt proudly. And jealousy flourishes on
scepticism. Even if pride would have let her ask, what good? She would
not have believed the answers. Of course he would say--if only out of
pity--that he never let his thoughts rest on another woman. But, after
all, it was only a phantom. There were many hours in those three weeks
when she felt he really loved her, and so--was happy.

They went back to the Red House at the end of the first week in
October. Little Gyp, home from the sea, was now an almost accomplished
horsewoman. Under the tutelage of old Pettance, she had been riding
steadily round and round those rough fields by the linhay which they
called "the wild," her firm brown legs astride of the mouse-coloured
pony, her little brown face, with excited, dark eyes, very erect, her
auburn crop of short curls flopping up and down on her little straight
back. She wanted to be able to "go out riding" with Grandy and Mum
and Baryn. And the first days were spent by them all more or less in
fulfilling her new desires. Then term began, and Gyp sat down again to
the long sharing of Summerhay with his other life.

VII

One afternoon at the beginning of November, the old Scotch terrier,
Ossian, lay on the path in the pale sunshine. He had lain there all
the morning since his master went up by the early train. Nearly sixteen
years old, he was deaf now and disillusioned, and every time that
Summerhay left him, his eyes seemed to say: "You will leave me once too
often!" The blandishments of the other nice people about the house were
becoming to him daily less and less a substitute for that which he
felt he had not much time left to enjoy; nor could he any longer bear a
stranger within the gate. From her window, Gyp saw him get up and stand
with his back ridged, growling at the postman, and, fearing for the
man's calves, she hastened out.

Among the letters was one in that dreaded hand writing marked
"Immediate," and forwarded from his chambe