rs. She took it up, and put it
to her nose. A scent--of what? Too faint to say. Her thumb nails sought
the edge of the flap on either side. She laid the letter down. Any other
letter, but not that--she wanted to open it too much. Readdressing it,
she took it out to put with the other letters. And instantly the thought
went through her: 'What a pity! If I read it, and there was nothing!'
All her restless, jealous misgivings of months past would then be set
at rest! She stood, uncertain, with the letter in her hand. Ah--but if
there WERE something! She would lose at one stroke her faith in him, and
her faith in herself--not only his love but her own self-respect.
She dropped the letter on the table. Could she not take it up to him
herself? By the three o'clock slow train, she could get to him soon
after five. She looked at her watch. She would just have time to walk
down. And she ran upstairs. Little Gyp was sitting on the top stair--her
favourite seat--looking at a picture-book.

"I'm going up to London, darling. Tell Betty I may be back to-night, or
perhaps I may not. Give me a good kiss."

Little Gyp gave the good kiss, and said:

"Let me see you put your hat on, Mum."

While Gyp was putting on hat and furs, she thought: "I shan't take a
bag; I can always make shift at Bury Street if--" She did not finish
the thought, but the blood came up in her cheeks. "Take care of Ossy,
darling!" She ran down, caught up the letter, and hastened away to the
station. In the train, her cheeks still burned. Might not this first
visit to his chambers be like her old first visit to the little house
in Chelsea? She took the letter out. How she hated that large, scrawly
writing for all the thoughts and fears it had given her these past
months! If that girl knew how much anxiety and suffering she had caused,
would she stop writing, stop seeing him? And Gyp tried to conjure up her
face, that face seen only for a minute, and the sound of that clipped,
clear voice but once heard--the face and voice of one accustomed to have
her own way. No! It would only make her go on all the more. Fair game,
against a woman with no claim--but that of love. Thank heaven she had
not taken him away from any woman--unless--that girl perhaps thought she
had! Ah! Why, in all these years, had she never got to know his secrets,
so that she might fight against what threatened her? But would she have
fought? To fight for love was degrading, horrible! And yet--if on