had seen together near the river, under the Berkshire downs, was still empty; and while it was being got ready, they lived at a London hotel.  She had insisted that he should tell no one of their life together.  If that must come, she wanted to be firmly settled in, with little Gyp and Betty and the horses, so that it should all be for him as much like respectable married life as possible.  But, one day, in the first week after their return, while in her room, just back from a long day’s shopping, a card was brought up to her:  “Lady Summerhay.”  Her first impulse was to be “not at home”; her second, “I’d better face it.  Bryan would wish me to see her!” When the page-boy was gone, she turned to the mirror and looked at herself doubtfully.  She seemed to know exactly what that tall woman whom she had seen on the platform would think of her—­too soft, not capable, not right for him!—­not even if she were legally his wife.  And touching her hair, laying a dab of scent on her eyebrows, she turned and went downstairs fluttering, but outwardly calm enough.

In the little low-roofed inner lounge of that old hotel, whose rooms were all “entirely renovated,” Gyp saw her visitor standing at a table, rapidly turning the pages of an illustrated magazine, as people will when their minds are set upon a coming operation.  And she thought:  ’I believe she’s more frightened than I am!’

Lady Summerhay held out a gloved hand.

“How do you do?” she said.  “I hope you’ll forgive my coming.”

Gyp took the hand.

“Thank you.  It was very good of you.  I’m sorry Bryan isn’t in yet.  Will you have some tea?”

“I’ve had tea; but do let’s sit down.  How do you find the hotel?”

“Very nice.”

On a velvet lounge that had survived the renovation, they sat side by side, screwed round toward each other.

“Bryan’s told me what a pleasant time you had abroad.  He’s looking very well, I think.  I’m devoted to him, you know.”

Gyp answered softly: 

“Yes, you must be.”  And her heart felt suddenly as hard as flint.

Lady Summerhay gave her a quick look.

“I—­I hope you won’t mind my being frank—­I’ve been so worried.  It’s an unhappy position, isn’t it?” Gyp did not answer, and she hurried on.  “If there’s anything I can do to help, I should be so glad—­it must be horrid for you.”

Gyp said very quietly: 

“Oh! no.  I’m perfectly happy—­couldn’t be happier.”  And she thought:  ’I suppose she doesn’t believe that.’

Lady Summerhay was looking at her fixedly.

“One doesn’t realize these things at first—­neither of you will, till you see how dreadfully Society can cold-shoulder.”

Gyp made an effort to control a smile.