me. In Gyp there was a feeling, as if
her spirit had been suddenly emptied of excitement and delight. Was it
the day, or the thought of leaving this place where she had so enjoyed
herself? After lunch, when Winton was settling his accounts, she
wandered out through the long park stretching up the valley. The sky was
brooding-grey, the trees were still and melancholy. It was all a little
melancholy, and she went on and on, across the stream, round into a
muddy lane that led up through the outskirts of a village, on to the
higher ground whence she could return by the main road. Why must things
come to an end? For the first time in her life, she thought of Mildenham
and hunting without enthusiasm. She would rather stay in London. There
she would not be cut off from music, from dancing, from people, and
all the exhilaration of being appreciated. On the air came the shrilly,
hollow droning of a thresher, and the sound seemed exactly to express
her feelings. A pigeon flew over, white against the leaden sky; some
birch-trees that had gone golden shivered and let fall a shower of
drops. It was lonely here! And, suddenly, two little boys bolted out of
the hedge, nearly upsetting her, and scurried down the road. Something
had startled them. Gyp, putting up her face to see, felt on it soft
pin-points of rain. Her frock would be spoiled, and it was one she was
fond of--dove-coloured, velvety, not meant for weather. She turned for
refuge to the birch-trees. It would be over directly, perhaps. Muffled
in distance, the whining drone of that thresher still came travelling,
deepening her discomfort. Then in the hedge, whence the boys had bolted
down, a man reared himself above the lane, and came striding along
toward her. He jumped down the bank, among the birch-trees. And she
saw it was Fiorsen--panting, dishevelled, pale with heat. He must have
followed her, and climbed straight up the hillside from the path she
had come along in the bottom, before crossing the stream. His artistic
dandyism had been harshly treated by that scramble. She might have
laughed; but, instead, she felt excited, a little scared by the look on
his hot, pale face. He said, breathlessly:

"I have caught you. So you are going to-morrow, and never told me! You
thought you would slip away--not a word for me! Are you always so cruel?
Well, I will not spare you, either!"

Crouching suddenly, he took hold of her broad ribbon sash, and buried
his face in it. Gyp stood