So passed the eleven years till she was nineteen and Winton forty-six.  Then, under the wing of her little governess, she went to the hunt-ball.  She had revolted against appearing a “fluffy miss,” wanting to be considered at once full-fledged; so that her dress, perfect in fit, was not white but palest maize-colour, as if she had already been to dances.  She had all Winton’s dandyism, and just so much more as was appropriate to her sex.  With her dark hair, wonderfully fluffed and coiled, waving across her forehead, her neck bare for the first time, her eyes really “flying,” and a demeanour perfectly cool—­as though she knew that light and movement, covetous looks, soft speeches, and admiration were her birthright—­she was more beautiful than even Winton had thought her.  At her breast she wore some sprigs of yellow jasmine procured by him from town—­a flower of whose scent she was very fond, and that he had never seen worn in ballrooms.  That swaying, delicate creature, warmed by excitement, reminded him, in every movement and by every glance of her eyes, of her whom he had first met at just such a ball as this.  And by the carriage of his head, the twist of his little moustache, he conveyed to the world the pride he was feeling.

That evening held many sensations for Gyp—­some delightful, one confused, one unpleasant.  She revelled in her success.  Admiration was very dear to her.  She passionately enjoyed dancing, loved feeling that she was dancing well and giving pleasure.  But, twice over, she sent away her partners, smitten with compassion for her little governess sitting there against the wall—­all alone, with no one to take notice of her, because she was elderly, and roundabout, poor darling!  And, to that loyal person’s horror, she insisted on sitting beside her all through two dances.  Nor would she go in to supper with anyone but Winton.  Returning to the ballroom on his arm, she overheard an elderly woman say:  “Oh, don’t you know?  Of course he really is her father!” and an elderly man answer:  “Ah, that accounts for it—­quite so!” With those eyes at the back of the head which the very sensitive possess, she could see their inquisitive, cold, slightly malicious glances, and knew they were speaking of her.  And just then her partner came for her.

“Really is her father!” The words meant too much to be grasped this evening of full sensations.  They left a little bruise somewhere, but softened and anointed, just a sense of confusion at the back of her mind.  And very soon came that other sensation, so disillusioning, that all else was crowded out.  It was after a dance—­a splendid dance with a good-looking man quite twice her age.  They were sitting behind some palms, he murmuring in his mellow, flown voice admiration for her dress, when suddenly he bent his flushed face and kissed her bare arm above the elbow.  If he had hit her he could not have astonished or hurt her