“One can only be cold-shouldered if one puts oneself in the way of it.  I should never wish to see or speak to anyone who couldn’t take me just for what I am.  And I don’t really see what difference it will make to Bryan; most men of his age have someone, somewhere.”  She felt malicious pleasure watching her visitor jib and frown at the cynicism of that soft speech; a kind of hatred had come on her of this society woman, who—­disguise it as she would—­was at heart her enemy, who regarded her, must regard her, as an enslaver, as a despoiler of her son’s worldly chances, a Delilah dragging him down.  She said still more quietly:  “He need tell no one of my existence; and you can be quite sure that if ever he feels he’s had enough of me, he’ll never be troubled by the sight of me again.”

And she got up.  Lady Summerhay also rose.

“I hope you don’t think—­I really am only too anxious to—­”

“I think it’s better to be quite frank.  You will never like me, or forgive me for ensnaring Bryan.  And so it had better be, please, as it would be if I were just his common mistress.  That will be perfectly all right for both of us.  It was very good of you to come, though.  Thank you—­and good-bye.”

Lady Summerhay literally faltered with speech and hand.

With a malicious smile, Gyp watched her retirement among the little tables and elaborately modern chairs till her tall figure had disappeared behind a column.  Then she sat down again on the lounge, pressing her hands to her burning ears.  She had never till then known the strength of the pride-demon within her; at the moment, it was almost stronger than her love.  She was still sitting there, when the page-boy brought her another card—­her father’s.  She sprang up saying: 

“Yes, here, please.”

Winton came in all brisk and elated at sight of her after this long absence; and, throwing her arms round his neck, she hugged him tight.  He was doubly precious to her after the encounter she had just gone though.  When he had given her news of Mildenham and little Gyp, he looked at her steadily, and said: 

“The coast’ll be clear for you both down there, and at Bury Street, whenever you like to come, Gyp.  I shall regard this as your real marriage.  I shall have the servants in and make that plain.”

A row like family prayers—­and Dad standing up very straight, saying in his dry way:  “You will be so good in future as to remember—­” “I shall be obliged if you will,” and so on; Betty’s round face pouting at being brought in with all the others; Markey’s soft, inscrutable; Mrs. Markey’s demure and goggling; the maids’ rabbit-faces; old Pettance’s carved grin the film lifting from his little burning eyes:  “Ha!  Mr. Bryn Summer’ay; he bought her orse, and so she’s gone to ’im!” And she said: 

“Darling, I don’t know!  It’s awfully sweet of you.  We’ll see later.”

Winton patted her hand.  “We must stand up to ’em, you know, Gyp.  You mustn’t get your tail down.”