Winton looked at her from under half-closed eyelids.

“With her clothes?  What does Fiorsen think of her?”

Gyp smiled.

“Does he think of her?  I don’t know.”

She could feel the watchful tightening of his face.  And suddenly he said: 

“Daphne Wing!  By George!”

The words were a masterpiece of resentment and distrust.  His daughter in peril from—­such as that!

After he was gone Gyp sat on till the sun had quite vanished and the dew was stealing through her thin frock.  She would think of anything, anybody except herself!  To make others happy was the way to be happy—­or so they said.  She would try—­must try.  Betty—­so stout, and with that rheumatism in her leg—­did she ever think of herself?  Or Aunt Rosamund, with her perpetual rescuings of lost dogs, lame horses, and penniless musicians?  And Dad, for all his man-of-the-world ways, was he not always doing little things for the men of his old regiment, always thinking of her, too, and what he could do to give her pleasure?  To love everybody, and bring them happiness!  Was it not possible?  Only, people were hard to love, different from birds and beasts and flowers, to love which seemed natural and easy.

She went up to her room and began to dress for dinner.  Which of her frocks did he like best?  The pale, low-cut amber, or that white, soft one, with the coffee-dipped lace?  She decided on the latter.  Scrutinizing her supple, slender image in the glass, a shudder went through her.  That would all go; she would be like those women taking careful exercise in the streets, who made her wonder at their hardihood in showing themselves.  It wasn’t fair that one must become unsightly, offensive to the eye, in order to bring life into the world.  Some women seemed proud to be like that.  How was that possible?  She would never dare to show herself in the days coming.

She finished dressing and went downstairs.  It was nearly eight, and Fiorsen had not come in.  When the gong was struck, she turned from the window with a sigh, and went in to dinner.  That sigh had been relief.  She ate her dinner with the two pups beside her, sent them off, and sat down at her piano.  She played Chopin—­studies, waltzes, mazurkas, preludes, a polonaise or two.  And Betty, who had a weakness for that composer, sat on a chair by the door which partitioned off the back premises, having opened it a little.  She wished she could go and take a peep at her “pretty” in her white frock, with the candle-flames on each side, and those lovely lilies in the vase close by, smelling beautiful.  And one of the maids coming too near, she shooed her angrily away.

It grew late.  The tray had been brought up; the maids had gone to bed.  Gyp had long stopped playing, had turned out, ready to go up, and, by the French window, stood gazing out into the dark.  How warm it was—­warm enough to draw forth the scent of the jessamine along the garden wall!  Not a star.  There always seemed so few stars in London.  A sound made her swing round.  Something tall was over there in the darkness, by the open door.  She heard a sigh, and called out, frightened: