“Yes; I play with my father nearly every evening.”

“Shall we have a game, then?”

She knew he only wanted to play because he could sit nearer, joined by the evening paper over their knees, hand her the cards after dealing, touch her hand by accident, look in her face.  And this was not unpleasant; for she, in turn, liked looking at his face, which had what is called “charm”—­that something light and unepiscopal, entirely lacking to so many solid, handsome, admirable faces.

But even railway journeys come to an end; and when he gripped her hand to say good-bye, she gave his an involuntary little squeeze.  Standing at her cab window, with his hat raised, the old dog under his arm, and a look of frank, rather wistful, admiration on his face, he said: 

“I shall see you at the opera, then, and in the Row perhaps; and I may come along to Bury Street, some time, mayn’t I?”

Nodding to those friendly words, Gyp drove off through the sultry London evening.  Her father was not back from the dinner, and she went straight to her room.  After so long in the country, it seemed very close in Bury Street; she put on a wrapper and sat down to brush the train-smoke out of her hair.

For months after leaving Fiorsen, she had felt nothing but relief.  Only of late had she begun to see her new position, as it was—­that of a woman married yet not married, whose awakened senses have never been gratified, whose spirit is still waiting for unfoldment in love, who, however disillusioned, is—­even if in secret from herself—­more and more surely seeking a real mate, with every hour that ripens her heart and beauty.  To-night—­gazing at her face, reflected, intent and mournful, in the mirror—­she saw that position more clearly, in all its aridity, than she had ever seen it.  What was the use of being pretty?  No longer use to anyone!  Not yet twenty-six, and in a nunnery!  With a shiver, but not of cold, she drew her wrapper close.  This time last year she had at least been in the main current of life, not a mere derelict.  And yet—­better far be like this than go back to him whom memory painted always standing over her sleeping baby, with his arms stretched out and his fingers crooked like claws.

After that early-morning escape, Fiorsen had lurked after her for weeks, in town, at Mildenham, followed them even to Scotland, where Winton had carried her off.  But she had not weakened in her resolution a second time, and suddenly he had given up pursuit, and gone abroad.  Since then—­nothing had come from him, save a few wild or maudlin letters, written evidently during drinking-bouts.  Even they had ceased, and for four months she had heard no word.  He had “got over” her, it seemed, wherever he was—­Russia, Sweden—­who knew—­who cared?