When he was really gone, peace fell on Gyp—­peace such as one feels, having no longer the tight, banded sensations of a fever.  To be without that strange, disorderly presence in the house!  When she woke in the sultry silence of the next morning, she utterly failed to persuade herself that she was missing him, missing the sound of his breathing, the sight of his rumpled hair on the pillow, the outline of his long form under the sheet.  Her heart was devoid of any emptiness or ache; she only felt how pleasant and cool and tranquil it was to lie there alone.  She stayed quite late in bed.  It was delicious, with window and door wide open and the puppies running in and out, to lie and doze off, or listen to the pigeons’ cooing, and the distant sounds of traffic, and feel in command once more of herself, body and soul.  Now that she had told Fiorsen, she had no longer any desire to keep her condition secret.  Feeling that it would hurt her father to learn of it from anyone but herself, she telephoned to tell him she was alone, and asked if she might come to Bury Street and dine with him.

Winton had not gone away, because, between Goodwood and Doncaster there was no racing that he cared for; one could not ride at this time of year, so might just as well be in London.  In fact, August was perhaps the pleasantest of all months in town; the club was empty, and he could sit there without some old bore buttonholing him.  Little Boncarte, the fencing-master, was always free for a bout—­Winton had long learned to make his left hand what his right hand used to be; the Turkish baths in Jermyn Street were nearly void of their fat clients; he could saunter over to Covent Garden, buy a melon, and carry it home without meeting any but the most inferior duchesses in Piccadilly; on warm nights he could stroll the streets or the parks, smoking his cigar, his hat pushed back to cool his forehead, thinking vague thoughts, recalling vague memories.  He received the news that his daughter was alone and free from that fellow with something like delight.  Where should he dine her?  Mrs. Markey was on her holiday.  Why not Blafard’s?  Quiet—–­small rooms—­not too respectable—­quite fairly cool—­good things to eat.  Yes; Blafard’s!

When she drove up, he was ready in the doorway, his thin brown face with its keen, half-veiled eyes the picture of composure, but feeling at heart like a schoolboy off for an exeat.  How pretty she was looking—­though pale from London—­her dark eyes, her smile!  And stepping quickly to the cab, he said: 

“No; I’m getting in—­dining at Blafard’s, Gyp—­a night out!”