will out even in a man's thoughts!) Well, and he could! His feeling
was not deep--that was God's truth! But it would be difficult, awkward,
brutal to give her up completely! It could be done, though, sooner than
that Gyp should think him cruel to her. It could be--should be done!

Only, would it be any use? Would she believe? Would she not always now
be suspecting him when he was away from her, whatever he did? Must he
then sit down here in inactivity? And a gust of anger with her swept
him. Why should she treat him as if he were utterly unreliable? Or--was
he? He stood still. When Diana had put her arms round his neck, he could
no more have resisted answering her kiss than he could now fly through
the window and over those poplar trees. But he was not a blackguard, not
cruel, not a liar! How could he have helped it all? The only way would
have been never to have answered the girl's first letter, nearly a year
ago. How could he foresee? And, since then, all so gradual, and nothing,
really, or almost nothing. Again the surge of anger swelled his heart.
She must have read the letter which had been under that cursed bust
of old Voltaire all those months ago. The poison had been working ever
since! And in sudden fury at that miserable mischance, he drove his fist
into the bronze face. The bust fell over, and Summerhay looked stupidly
at his bruised hand. A silly thing to do! But it had quenched his anger.
He only saw Gyp's face now--so pitifully unhappy. Poor darling! What
could he do? If only she would believe! And again he had the sickening
conviction that whatever he did would be of no avail. He could never get
back, was only at the beginning, of a trouble that had no end. And, like
a rat in a cage, his mind tried to rush out of this entanglement now at
one end, now at the other. Ah, well! Why bruise your head against walls?
If it was hopeless--let it go! And, shrugging his shoulders, he went out
to the stables, and told old Pettance to saddle Hotspur. While he stood
there waiting, he thought: 'Shall I ask her to come?' But he could not
stand another bout of misery--must have rest! And mounting, he rode up
towards the downs.

Hotspur, the sixteen-hand brown horse, with not a speck of white, that
Gyp had ridden hunting the day she first saw Summerhay, was nine years
old now. His master's two faults as a horseman--a habit of thrusting,
and not too light hands--had encouraged his rather hard mouth, and
something had happene