That evening, at dinner, Winton said calmly: 

“Well, I’ve been to see Fiorsen, and warned him off.  Found him at that fellow Rosek’s.”  Gyp received the news with a vague sensation of alarm.  “And I met that girl, the dancer, coming out of the house as I was going in—­made it plain I’d seen her, so I don’t think he’ll trouble you.”

An irresistible impulse made her ask: 

“How was she looking, Dad?”

Winton smiled grimly.  How to convey his impression of the figure he had seen coming down the steps—­of those eyes growing rounder and rounder at sight of him, of that mouth opening in an:  “Oh!”

“Much the same.  Rather flabbergasted at seeing me, I think.  A white hat—­very smart.  Attractive in her way, but common, of course.  Those two were playing the piano and fiddle when I went up.  They tried not to let me in, but I wasn’t to be put off.  Queer place, that!”

Gyp smiled.  She could see it all so well.  The black walls, the silver statuettes, Rops drawings, scent of dead rose-leaves and pastilles and cigarettes—­and those two by the piano—­and her father so cool and dry!

“One can’t stand on ceremony with fellows like that.  I hadn’t forgotten that Polish chap’s behaviour to you, my dear.”

Through Gyp passed a quiver of dread, a vague return of the feelings once inspired by Rosek.

“I’m almost sorry you went, Dad.  Did you say anything very—­”

“Did I?  Let’s see!  No; I think I was quite polite.”  He added, with a grim, little smile:  “I won’t swear I didn’t call one of them a ruffian.  I know they said something about my presuming on being a cripple.”

“Oh, darling!”

“Yes; it was that Polish chap—­and so he is!”

Gyp murmured: 

“I’d almost rather it had been—­the other.”  Rosek’s pale, suave face, with the eyes behind which there were such hidden things, and the lips sweetish and restrained and sensual—­he would never forgive!  But Winton only smiled again, patting her arm.  He was pleased with an encounter which had relieved his feelings.

Gyp spent all that evening writing her first real love-letter.  But when, next afternoon at six, in fulfilment of its wording, she came to Summerhay’s little house, her heart sank; for the blinds were down and it had a deserted look.  If he had been there, he would have been at the window, waiting.  Had he, then, not got her letter, not been home since yesterday?  And that chill fear which besets lovers’ hearts at failure of a tryst smote her for the first time.  In the three-cornered garden stood a decayed statue of a naked boy with a broken bow—­a sparrow was perching on his greenish shoulder; sooty, heart-shaped lilac leaves hung round his head, and at his legs the old Scotch terrier was sniffing.  Gyp called:  “Ossian!  Ossy!” and the old dog came, wagging his tail feebly.

“Master!  Where is your master, dear?”