“Yes.”

They went on into the sedgy grass and the curlew continued to circle, vanishing and reappearing from behind the trees, always uttering those shrill cries.  Little Gyp said: 

“Mum, could we speak to it?  Because we’re not going to hurt nothing, are we?”

“Of course not, darling!  But I’m afraid the poor bird’s too wild.  Try, if you like.  Call to it:  ‘Courlie!  Courlie!"’

Little Gyp’s piping joined the curlew’s cries and other bird-songs in the bright shadowy quiet of the evening till Gyp said: 

“Oh, look; it’s dipping close to the ground, over there in that corner—­it’s got a nest!  We won’t go near, will we?”

Little Gyp echoed in a hushed voice: 

“It’s got a nest.”

They stole back out of the gate close to the linhay, the curlew still fighting and crying behind them.

“Aren’t we glad the mate isn’t hurt, mum?”

Gyp answered with a shiver: 

“Yes, darling, fearfully glad.  Now then, shall we go down and ask Grandy to come up to dinner?”

Little Gyp hopped.  And they went toward the river.

At “The Bowl of Cream,” Winton had for two years had rooms, which he occupied as often as his pursuits permitted.  He had refused to make his home with Gyp, desiring to be on hand only when she wanted him; and a simple life of it he led in those simple quarters, riding with her when Summerhay was in town, visiting the cottagers, smoking cigars, laying plans for the defence of his daughter’s position, and devoting himself to the whims of little Gyp.  This moment, when his grandchild was to begin to ride, was in a manner sacred to one for whom life had scant meaning apart from horses.  Looking at them, hand in hand, Gyp thought:  ’Dad loves her as much as he loves me now—­more, I think.’

Lonely dinner at the inn was an infliction which he studiously concealed from Gyp, so he accepted their invitation without alacrity, and they walked on up the hill, with little Gyp in the middle, supported by a hand on each side.

The Red House contained nothing that had been in Gyp’s married home except the piano.  It had white walls, furniture of old oak, and for pictures reproductions of her favourites.  “The Death of Procris” hung in the dining-room.  Winton never failed to scrutinize it when he came in to a meal—­that “deuced rum affair” appeared to have a fascination for him.  He approved of the dining-room altogether; its narrow oak “last supper” table made gay by a strip of blue linen, old brick hearth, casement windows hung with flowered curtains—­all had a pleasing austerity, uncannily redeemed to softness.  He got on well enough with Summerhay, but he enjoyed himself much more when he was there alone with his daughter.  And this evening he was especially glad to have her to himself, for she had seemed of late rather grave and absent-minded.  When dinner was over and they were undisturbed, he said: