One part of her education, at all events, was not neglected—­cultivation of an habitual sympathy with her poorer neighbours.  Without concerning himself in the least with problems of sociology, Winton had by nature an open hand and heart for cottagers, and abominated interference with their lives.  And so it came about that Gyp, who, by nature also never set foot anywhere without invitation, was always hearing the words:  “Step in, Miss Gyp”; “Step in, and sit down, lovey,” and a good many words besides from even the boldest and baddest characters.  There is nothing like a soft and pretty face and sympathetic listening for seducing the hearts of “the people.”

So passed the eleven years till she was nineteen and Winton forty-six.  Then, under the wing of her little governess, she went to the hunt-ball.  She had revolted against appearing a “fluffy miss,” wanting to be considered at once full-fledged; so that her dress, perfect in fit, was not white but palest maize-colour, as if she had already been to dances.  She had all Winton’s dandyism, and just so much more as was appropriate to her sex.  With her dark hair, wonderfully fluffed and coiled, waving across her forehead, her neck bare for the first time, her eyes really “flying,” and a demeanour perfectly cool—­as though she knew that light and movement, covetous looks, soft speeches, and admiration were her birthright—­she was more beautiful than even Winton had thought her.  At her breast she wore some sprigs of yellow jasmine procured by him from town—­a flower of whose scent she was very fond, and that he had never seen worn in ballrooms.  That swaying, delicate creature, warmed by excitement, reminded him, in every movement and by every glance of her eyes, of her whom he had first met at just such a ball as this.  And by the carriage of his head, the twist of his little moustache, he conveyed to the world the pride he was feeling.

That evening held many sensations for Gyp—­some delightful, one confused, one unpleasant.  She revelled in her success.  Admiration was very dear to her.  She passionately enjoyed dancing, loved feeling that she was dancing well and giving pleasure.  But, twice over, she sent away her partners, smitten with compassion for her little governess sitting there against the wall—­all alone, with no one to take notice of her, because she was elderly, and roundabout, poor darling!  And, to that loyal person’s horror, she insisted on sitting beside her all through two dances.  Nor would she go in to supper with anyone but Winton.  Returning to the ballroom on his arm, she overheard an elderly woman say:  “Oh, don’t you know?  Of course he really is her father!” and an elderly man answer:  “Ah, that accounts for it—­quite so!” With those eyes at the back of the head which the very sensitive possess, she could see their inquisitive, cold, slightly malicious glances, and knew they were speaking of her.  And just then her partner came for her.