would not be dull. One morning, he told her
something of his life. His father had been a small Swedish landowner, a
very strong man and a very hard drinker; his mother, the daughter of a
painter. She had taught him the violin, but died while he was still a
boy. When he was seventeen he had quarrelled with his father, and had to
play his violin for a living in the streets of Stockholm. A well-known
violinist, hearing him one day, took him in hand. Then his father had
drunk himself to death, and he had inherited the little estate. He had
sold it at once--"for follies," as he put it crudely. "Yes, Miss Winton;
I have committed many follies, but they are nothing to those I shall
commit the day I do not see you any more!" And, with that disturbing
remark, he got up and left her. She had smiled at his words, but within
herself she felt excitement, scepticism, compassion, and something she
did not understand at all. In those days, she understood herself very
little.

But how far did Winton understand, how far see what was going on? He
was a stoic; but that did not prevent jealousy from taking alarm, and
causing him twinges more acute than those he still felt in his left
foot. He was afraid of showing disquiet by any dramatic change, or he
would have carried her off a fortnight at least before his cure was
over. He knew too well the signs of passion. That long, loping, wolfish
fiddling fellow with the broad cheekbones and little side-whiskers (Good
God!) and greenish eyes whose looks at Gyp he secretly marked down,
roused his complete distrust. Perhaps his inbred English contempt for
foreigners and artists kept him from direct action. He COULD not take
it quite seriously. Gyp, his fastidious perfect Gyp, succumbing, even a
little to a fellow like that! Never! His jealous affection, too,
could not admit that she would neglect to consult him in any doubt or
difficulty. He forgot the sensitive secrecy of girls, forgot that his
love for her had ever shunned words, her love for him never indulged in
confidences. Nor did he see more than a little of what there was to see,
and that little was doctored by Fiorsen for his eyes, shrewd though
they were. Nor was there in all so very much, except one episode the day
before they left, and of that he knew nothing.

That last afternoon was very still, a little mournful. It had rained the
night before, and the soaked tree-trunks, the soaked fallen leaves gave
off a faint liquorice-like perfu