The happiest time of a girl’s life is that when all appreciate and covet her, and she herself is free as air—­a queen of hearts, for none of which she hankers; or, if not the happiest, at all events it is the gayest time.  What did Gyp care whether hearts ached for her—­she knew not love as yet, perhaps would never know the pains of unrequited love.  Intoxicated with life, she led her many admirers a pretty dance, treating them with a sort of bravura.  She did not want them to be unhappy, but she simply could not take them seriously.  Never was any girl so heart-free.  She was a queer mixture in those days, would give up any pleasure for Winton, and most for Betty or her aunt—­her little governess was gone—­but of nobody else did she seem to take account, accepting all that was laid at her feet as the due of her looks, her dainty frocks, her music, her good riding and dancing, her talent for amateur theatricals and mimicry.  Winton, whom at least she never failed, watched that glorious fluttering with quiet pride and satisfaction.  He was getting to those years when a man of action dislikes interruption of the grooves into which his activity has fallen.  He pursued his hunting, racing, card-playing, and his very stealthy alms and services to lame ducks of his old regiment, their families, and other unfortunates—­happy in knowing that Gyp was always as glad to be with him as he to be with her.  Hereditary gout, too, had begun to bother him.

The day that she came of age they were up in town, and he summoned her to the room, in which he now sat by the fire recalling all these things, to receive an account of his stewardship.  He had nursed her greatly embarrassed inheritance very carefully till it amounted to some twenty thousand pounds.  He had never told her of it—­the subject was dangerous, and, since his own means were ample, she had not wanted for anything.  When he had explained exactly what she owned, shown her how it was invested, and told her that she must now open her own banking account, she stood gazing at the sheets of paper, whose items she had been supposed to understand, and her face gathered the look which meant that she was troubled.  Without lifting her eyes she asked: 

“Does it all come from—­him?”

He had not expected that, and flushed under his tan.

“No; eight thousand of it was your mother’s.”

Gyp looked at him, and said: 

“Then I won’t take the rest—­please, Dad.”

Winton felt a sort of crabbed pleasure.  What should be done with that money if she did not take it, he did not in the least know.  But not to take it was like her, made her more than ever his daughter—­a kind of final victory.  He turned away to the window from which he had so often watched for her mother.  There was the corner she used to turn!  In one minute, surely she would be standing there, colour glowing in her cheeks, her eyes soft behind her veil, her breast heaving a little with her haste, waiting for his embrace.  There she would stand, drawing up her veil.  He turned round.  Difficult to believe it was not she!  And he said: