“Halo!  How are you, Diana?”

“Oh, awfully fit.  Where are you, nowadays?  Why don’t you come and see us?”

Again the drawl: 

“Down in the country.  I will, some time.  Good-bye.”

A tall woman or girl—­red-haired, with one of those wonderful white skins that go therewith; and brown—­yes, brown eyes; Gyp could see those eyes sweeping her up and down with a sort of burning-live curiosity.  Bryan’s hand was thrust under her arm at once.

“Come on, let’s walk and get a cab.”

As soon as they were clear of the crowd, she pressed his hand to her breast, and said: 

“Did you mind?”

“Mind?  Of course not.  It’s for you to mind.”

“Who was it?”

“A second cousin.  Diana Leyton.”

“Do you know her very well?”

“Oh yes—­used to.”

“And do you like her very much?”

“Rather!”

He looked round into her face, with laughter bubbling up behind his gravity.  Ah, but could one tease on such a subject as their love?  And to this day the figure of that tall girl with the burning-white skin, the burning-brown eyes, the burning-red hair was not quite a pleasant memory to Gyp.  After that night, they gave up all attempt to hide their union, going to whatever they wished, whether they were likely to meet people or not.  Gyp found that nothing was so easily ignored as Society when the heart was set on other things.  Besides, they were seldom in London, and in the country did not wish to know anyone, in any case.  But she never lost the feeling that what was ideal for her might not be ideal for him.  He ought to go into the world, ought to meet people.  It would not do for him to be cut off from social pleasures and duties, and then some day feel that he owed his starvation to her.  To go up to London, too, every day was tiring, and she persuaded him to take a set of residential chambers in the Temple, and sleep there three nights a week.  In spite of all his entreaties, she herself never went to those chambers, staying always at Bury Street when she came up.  A kind of superstition prevented her; she would not risk making him feel that she was hanging round his neck.  Besides, she wanted to keep herself desirable—­so little a matter of course that he would hanker after her when he was away.  And she never asked him where he went or whom he saw.  But, sometimes, she wondered whether he could still be quite faithful to her in thought, love her as he used to; and joy would go down behind a heavy bank of clouds, till, at his return, the sun came out again.  Love such as hers—­passionate, adoring, protective, longing to sacrifice itself, to give all that it had to him, yet secretly demanding all his love in return—­for how could a proud woman love one who did not love her?—­such love as this is always longing for a union more complete than it is likely to get in a world where all things move and change.  But against the grip of this love she never dreamed of fighting now.  From the moment when she knew she must cling to him rather than to her baby, she had made no reservations; all her eggs were in one basket, as her father’s had been before her—­all!