fastened her furs, as if it had been he, not she, who had snatched that kiss.  But her hand had pressed his arm against her as they went down the stairs.  And getting into her cab at the Temple Station, she had looked back at him with a little half-mocking smile of challenge and comradeship and promise.  The link would be hard to break—­even if he wanted to.  And yet nothing would come of it!  Heavens, no!  He had never thought!  Marriage!  Impossible!  Anything else—­even more impossible!  When he got back to his chambers, he had found in the box the letter, which her telegram had repeated, readdressed by Gyp from the Red House.  And a faint uneasiness at its having gone down there passed through him.  He spent a restless evening at the club, playing cards and losing; sat up late in his chambers over a case; had a hard morning’s work, and only now that he was nearing Gyp, realized how utterly he had lost the straightforward simplicity of things.

When he reached the house and found that she had gone out riding alone, his uneasiness increased.  Why had she not waited as usual for him to ride with her?  And he paced up and down the garden, where the wind was melancholy in the boughs of the walnut-tree that had lost all its leaves.  Little Gyp was out for her walk, and only poor old Ossy kept him company.  Had she not expected him by the usual train?  He would go and try to find out.  He changed and went to the stables.  Old Pettance was sitting on a corn-bin, examining an aged Ruff’s Guide, which contained records of his long-past glory, scored under by a pencil:  “June Stakes:  Agility.  E. Pettance 3rd.”  “Tidport Selling H’Cap:  Dorothea, E. Pettance, o.”  “Salisbury Cup:  Also ran Plum Pudding, E. Pettance,” with other triumphs.  He got up, saying: 

“Good-afternoon, sir; windy afternoon, sir.  The mistress ’as been gone out over two hours, sir.  She wouldn’t take me with ’er.”

“Hurry up, then, and saddle Hotspur.”

“Yes, sir; very good, sir.”

Over two hours!  He went up on to the downs, by the way they generally came home, and for an hour he rode, keeping a sharp lookout for any sign of her.  No use; and he turned home, hot and uneasy.  On the hall table were her riding-whip and gloves.  His heart cleared, and he ran upstairs.  She was doing her hair and turned her head sharply as he entered.  Hurrying across the room he had the absurd feeling that she was standing at bay.  She drew back, bent her face away from him, and said: 

“No!  Don’t pretend!  Anything’s better than pretence!”

He had never seen her look or speak like that—­her face so hard, her eyes so stabbing!  And he recoiled dumbfounded.

“What’s the matter, Gyp?”

“Nothing.  Only—­don’t pretend!” And, turning to the glass, she went on twisting and coiling up her hair.

She looked lovely, flushed from her ride in the wind, and he had a longing to seize her in his arms.  But her face stopped him.  With fear and a sort of anger, he said: