When she was once more in the garden, she hurried away; but instead of crossing the fields again, turned past the side of the cottage into the coppice behind.  And, sitting down on a log, her hands pressed to her cheeks and her elbows to her breast, she stared at the sunlit bracken and the flies chasing each other over it.  Love!  Was it always something hateful and tragic that spoiled lives?  Criss-cross!  One darting on another, taking her almost before she knew she was seized, then darting away and leaving her wanting to be seized again.  Or darting on her, who, when seized, was fatal to the darter, yet had never wanted to be seized.  Or darting one on the other for a moment, then both breaking away too soon.  Did never two dart at each other, seize, and cling, and ever after be one?  Love!  It had spoiled her father’s life, and Daphne Wing’s; never came when it was wanted; always came when it was not.  Malevolent wanderer, alighting here, there; tiring of the spirit before it tired of the body; or of the body before it tired of the spirit.  Better to have nothing to do with it—­far better!  If one never loved, one would never feel lonely—­like that poor girl.  And yet!  No—­there was no “and yet.”  Who that was free would wish to become a slave?  A slave—­like Daphne Wing!  A slave—­like her own husband to his want of a wife who did not love him.  A slave like her father had been—­still was, to a memory.  And watching the sunlight on the bracken, Gyp thought:  ’Love!  Keep far from me.  I don’t want you.  I shall never want you!’

Every morning that week she made her way to the cottage, and every morning had to pass through the hands of Mrs. Wagge.  The good lady had got over the upsetting fact that Gyp was the wife of that villain, and had taken a fancy to her, confiding to the economic agent, who confided it to Gyp, that she was “very distangey—­and such pretty eyes, quite Italian.”  She was one of those numberless persons whose passion for distinction was just a little too much for their passionate propriety.  It was that worship of distinction which had caused her to have her young daughter’s talent for dancing fostered.  Who knew to what it might lead in these days?  At great length she explained to Gyp the infinite care with which she had always “brought Daisy up like a lady—­and now this is the result.”  And she would look piercingly at Gyp’s hair or ears, at her hands or her instep, to see how it was done.  The burial worried her dreadfully.  “I’m using the name of Daisy Wing; she was christened ‘Daisy’ and the Wing’s professional, so that takes them both in, and it’s quite the truth.  But I don’t think anyone would connect it, would they?  About the father’s name, do you think I might say the late Mr. Joseph Wing, this once?  You see, it never was alive, and I must put something if they’re not to guess the truth, and that I couldn’t bear; Mr. Wagge would be so distressed.  It’s in his own line, you see.  Oh, it is upsetting!”