Gyp laughed.

“No, Dad; never!”

That same night, across the strip of blackness between their beds, she said: 

“Bryan, promise me something!”

“It depends.  I know you too well.”

“No; it’s quite reasonable, and possible.  Promise!”

“All right; if it is.”

“I want you to let me take the lease of the Red House—­let it be mine, the whole thing—­let me pay for everything there.”

“Reasonable!  What’s the point?”

“Only that I shall have a proper home of my own.  I can’t explain, but your mother’s coming to-day made me feel I must.”

“My child, how could I possibly live on you there?  It’s absurd!”

“You can pay for everything else; London—­travelling—­clothes, if you like.  We can make it square up.  It’s not a question of money, of course.  I only want to feel that if, at any moment, you don’t need me any more, you can simply stop coming.”

“I think that’s brutal, Gyp.”

“No, no; so many women lose men’s love because they seem to claim things of them.  I don’t want to lose yours that way—­that’s all.”

“That’s silly, darling!”

“It’s not.  Men—­and women, too—­always tug at chains.  And when there is no chain—­”

“Well then; let me take the house, and you can go away when you’re tired of me.”  His voice sounded smothered, resentful; she could hear him turning and turning, as if angry with his pillows.  And she murmured: 

“No; I can’t explain.  But I really mean it.”

“We’re just beginning life together, and you talk as if you want to split it up.  It hurts, Gyp, and that’s all about it.”

She said gently: 

“Don’t be angry, dear.”

“Well!  Why don’t you trust me more?”

“I do.  Only I must make as sure as I can.”

The sound came again of his turning and turning.

“I can’t!”

Gyp said slowly: 

“Oh!  Very well!”

A dead silence followed, both lying quiet in the darkness, trying to get the better of each other by sheer listening.  An hour perhaps passed before he sighed, and, feeling his lips on hers, she knew that she had won.

III

There, in the study, the moonlight had reached her face; an owl was hooting not far away, and still more memories came—­the happiest of all, perhaps—­of first days in this old house together.

Summerhay damaged himself out hunting that first winter.  The memory of nursing him was strangely pleasant, now that it was two years old.  For convalescence they had gone to the Pyrenees—­Argeles in March, all almond-blossom and snows against the blue—­a wonderful fortnight.  In London on the way back they had their first awkward encounter.  Coming out of a theatre one evening, Gyp heard a woman’s voice, close behind, say:  “Why, it’s Bryan!  What ages!” And his answer defensively drawled out: