the turn of her head, the way those perfectly shaped, wonderfully clear brown eyes would “fly,” the set of her straight, round neck, the very shaping of her limbs were all such poignant reminders of what he had so loved.  And yet, for all that likeness to her mother, there was a difference, both in form and character.  Gyp had, as it were, an extra touch of “breeding,” more chiselling in body, more fastidiousness in soul, a little more poise, a little more sheer grace; in mood, more variance, in mind, more clarity and, mixed with her sweetness, a distinct spice of scepticism which her mother had lacked.

In modern times there are no longer “toasts,” or she would have been one with both the hunts.  Though delicate in build, she was not frail, and when her blood was up would “go” all day, and come in so bone-tired that she would drop on to the tiger skin before the fire, rather than face the stairs.  Life at Mildenham was lonely, save for Winton’s hunting cronies, and they but few, for his spiritual dandyism did not gladly suffer the average country gentleman and his frigid courtesy frightened women.

Besides, as Betty had foreseen, tongues did wag—­those tongues of the countryside, avid of anything that might spice the tedium of dull lives and brains.  And, though no breath of gossip came to Winton’s ears, no women visited at Mildenham.  Save for the friendly casual acquaintanceships of churchyard, hunting-field, and local race-meetings, Gyp grew up knowing hardly any of her own sex.  This dearth developed her reserve, kept her backward in sex-perception, gave her a faint, unconscious contempt for men—­ creatures always at the beck and call of her smile, and so easily disquieted by a little frown—­gave her also a secret yearning for companions of her own gender.  Any girl or woman that she did chance to meet always took a fancy to her, because she was so nice to them, which made the transitory nature of these friendships tantalizing.  She was incapable of jealousies or backbiting.  Let men beware of such—­there is coiled in their fibre a secret fascination!

Gyp’s moral and spiritual growth was not the sort of subject that Winton could pay much attention to.  It was pre-eminently a matter one did not talk about.  Outward forms, such as going to church, should be preserved; manners should be taught her by his own example as much as possible; beyond this, nature must look after things.  His view had much real wisdom.  She was a quick and voracious reader, bad at remembering what she read; and though she had soon devoured all the books in Winton’s meagre library, including Byron, Whyte-Melville, and Humboldt’s “Cosmos,” they had not left too much on her mind.  The attempts of her little governess to impart religion were somewhat arid of result, and the interest of the vicar, Gyp, with her instinctive spice of scepticism soon put into the same category as the interest of all the other males she knew.  She felt that he enjoyed calling her “my dear” and patting her shoulder, and that this enjoyment was enough reward for his exertions.