he seemed so hard and clever—­so of a world to which she never could belong, so of a piece with the brilliant bullying of the whole proceeding.  She had come away feeling that she only possessed and knew one side of him.  On the river, she had that side utterly—­her lovable, lazy, impudently loving boy, lying with his head in her lap, plunging in for a swim, splashing round her; or with his sleeves rolled up, his neck bare, and a smile on his face, plying his slow sculls down-stream, singing, “Away, my rolling river,” or puffing home like a demon in want of his dinner.  It was such a blessing to lose for a few hours each week this growing consciousness that she could never have the whole of him.  But all the time the patch of silence grew, for doubt in the heart of one lover reacts on the heart of the other.

When the long vacation came, she made an heroic resolve.  He must go to Scotland, must have a month away from her, a good long rest.  And while Betty was at the sea with little Gyp, she would take her father to his cure.  She held so inflexibly to this resolve, that, after many protests, he said with a shrug: 

“Very well, I will then—­if you’re so keen to get rid of me.”

“Keen to get rid!” When she could not bear to be away from him!  But she forced her feeling back, and said, smiling: 

“At last!  There’s a good boy!” Anything!  If only it would bring him back to her exactly as he had been.  She asked no questions as to where, or to whom, he would go.

Tunbridge Wells, that charming purgatory where the retired prepare their souls for a more permanent retirement, was dreaming on its hills in long rows of adequate villas.  Its commons and woods had remained unscorched, so that the retired had not to any extent deserted it, that August, for the sea.  They still shopped in the Pantiles, strolled the uplands, or flourished their golf-clubs in the grassy parks; they still drank tea in each other’s houses and frequented the many churches.  One could see their faces, as it were, goldened by their coming glory, like the chins of children by reflection from buttercups.  From every kind of life they had retired, and, waiting now for a more perfect day, were doing their utmost to postpone it.  They lived very long.

Gyp and her father had rooms in a hotel where he could bathe and drink the waters without having to climb three hills.  This was the first cure she had attended since the long-past time at Wiesbaden.  Was it possible that was only six years ago?  She felt so utterly, so strangely different!  Then life had been sparkling sips of every drink, and of none too much; now it was one long still draft, to quench a thirst that would not be quenched.