“Good-bye, old Ossy!  Was he nice!  Tumbo, keep down!  You’re not going!”

“Good-bye, dear boy!  Don’t work too hard!”

The young man’s answer was not audible, but it was followed by irrepressible gurgles and a smothered: 

“Oh, Bryan, you are—­Good-bye, dear Ossy!” “Good-bye!” “Good-bye!” The young man who had got in, made another unintelligible joke in a rather high-pitched voice, which was somehow familiar, and again the gurgles broke forth.  Then the train moved.  Gyp caught a side view of him, waving his hat from the carriage window.  It was her acquaintance of the hunting-field—­the “Mr. Bryn Summer’ay,” as old Pettance called him, who had bought her horse last year.  Seeing him pull down his overcoat, to bank up the old Scotch terrier against the jolting of the journey, she thought:  ’I like men who think first of their dogs.’  His round head, with curly hair, broad brow, and those clean-cut lips, gave her again the wonder:  ‘Where have I seen someone like him?’ He raised the window, and turned round.

“How would you like—­Oh, how d’you do!  We met out hunting.  You don’t remember me, I expect.”

“Yes; perfectly.  And you bought my horse last summer.  How is he?”

“In great form.  I forgot to ask what you called him; I’ve named him Hotspur—­he’ll never be steady at his fences.  I remember how he pulled with you that day.”

They were silent, smiling, as people will in remembrance of a good run.

Then, looking at the dog, Gyp said softly: 

“He looks rather a darling.  How old?”

“Twelve.  Beastly when dogs get old!”

There was another little silence while he contemplated her steadily with his clear eyes.

“I came over to call once—­with my mother; November the year before last.  Somebody was ill.”

“Yes—­I.”

“Badly?”

Gyp shook her head.

“I heard you were married—­” The little drawl in his voice had increased, as though covering the abruptness of that remark.  Gyp looked up.

“Yes; but my little daughter and I live with my father again.”  What “came over” her—­as they say—­to be so frank, she could not have told.

He said simply: 

“Ah!  I’ve often thought it queer I’ve never seen you since.  What a run that was!”

“Perfect!  Was that your mother on the platform?”

“Yes—­and my sister Edith.  Extraordinary dead-alive place, Widrington; I expect Mildenham isn’t much better?”

“It’s very quiet, but I like it.”

“By the way, I don’t know your name now?”

“Fiorsen.”

“Oh, yes!  The violinist.  Life’s a bit of a gamble, isn’t it?”

Gyp did not answer that odd remark, did not quite know what to make of this audacious young man, whose hazel eyes and lazy smile were queerly lovable, but whose face in repose had such a broad gravity.  He took from his pocket a little red book.