Mrs. Wagge sighed.  Mr. Wagge looked away and answered: 

“It’s a sore subject.  There she is, making her forty and fifty pound a week, and run after in all the papers.  She’s a success—­no doubt about it.  And she works.  Saving a matter of fifteen ’undred a year, I shouldn’t be surprised.  Why, at my best, the years the influenza was so bad, I never cleared a thousand net.  No, she’s a success.”

Mrs. Wagge added: 

“Have you seen her last photograph—­the one where she’s standing between two hydrangea-tubs?  It was her own idea.”

Mr. Wagge mumbled suddenly: 

“I’m always glad to see her when she takes a run down in a car.  But I’ve come here for quiet after the life I’ve led, and I don’t want to think about it, especially before you, ma’am.  I don’t—­that’s a fact.”

A silence followed, during which Mr. and Mrs. Wagge looked at their feet, and Gyp looked at the dog.

“Ah!—­here you are!” It was Winton, who had come up from behind the shelter, and stood, with eyebrows slightly raised.  Gyp could not help a smile.  Her father’s weathered, narrow face, half-veiled eyes, thin nose, little crisp, grey moustache that did not hide his firm lips, his lean, erect figure, the very way he stood, his thin, dry, clipped voice were the absolute antithesis of Mr. Wagge’s thickset, stoutly planted form, thick-skinned, thick-featured face, thick, rather hoarse yet oily voice.  It was as if Providence had arranged a demonstration of the extremes of social type.  And she said: 

“Mr. and Mrs. Wagge—­my father.”

Winton raised his hat.  Gyp remained seated, the dog Duckie being still on her feet.

“’Appy to meet you, sir.  I hope you have benefit from the waters.  They’re supposed to be most powerful, I believe.”

“Thank you—­not more deadly than most.  Are you drinking them?”

Mr. Wagge smiled.

“Nao!” he said, “we live here.”

“Indeed!  Do you find anything to do?”

“Well, as a fact, I’ve come here for rest.  But I take a Turkish bath once a fortnight—­find it refreshing; keeps the pores of the skin acting.”

Mrs. Wagge added gently: 

“It seems to suit my husband wonderfully.”

Winton murmured: 

“Yes.  Is this your dog?  Bit of a philosopher, isn’t he?”

Mrs. Wagge answered: 

“Oh, he’s a naughty dog, aren’t you, Duckie?”

The dog Duckie, feeling himself the cynosure of every eye, rose and stood panting into Gyp’s face.  She took the occasion to get up.

“We must go, I’m afraid.  Good-bye.  It’s been very nice to meet you again.  When you see Daisy, will you please give her my love?”

Mrs. Wagge unexpectedly took a handkerchief from her reticule.  Mr. Wagge cleared his throat heavily.  Gyp was conscious of the dog Duckie waddling after them, and of Mrs. Wagge calling, “Duckie, Duckie!” from behind her handkerchief.