Gyp drew to one side on the bench, and he sat down.

“What are you reading?”

“A story called ‘Torrents of Spring.’”

“Ah, the finest ever written!  Where are you?”

“Gemma and Sanin in the thunderstorm.”

“Wait!  You have Madame Polozov to come!  What a creation!  How old are you, Miss Winton?”

“Twenty-two.”

“You would be too young to appreciate that story if you were not you.  But you know much—­by instinct.  What is your Christian name—­forgive me!”

“Ghita.”

“Ghita?  Not soft enough.”

“I am always called Gyp.”

“Gyp—­ah, Gyp!  Yes; Gyp!”

He repeated her name so impersonally that she could not be angry.

“I told your father I have had the pleasure of meeting you.  He was very polite.”

Gyp said coldly: 

“My father is always polite.”

“Like the ice in which they put champagne.”

Gyp smiled; she could not help it.

And suddenly he said: 

“I suppose they have told you that I am a mauvais sujet.”  Gyp inclined her head.  He looked at her steadily, and said:  “It is true.  But I could be better—­much.”

She wanted to look at him, but could not.  A queer sort of exultation had seized on her.  This man had power; yet she had power over him.  If she wished she could make him her slave, her dog, chain him to her.  She had but to hold out her hand, and he would go on his knees to kiss it.  She had but to say, “Come,” and he would come from wherever he might be.  She had but to say, “Be good,” and he would be good.  It was her first experience of power; and it was intoxicating.  But—­but!  Gyp could never be self-confident for long; over her most victorious moments brooded the shadow of distrust.  As if he read her thought, Fiorsen said: 

“Tell me to do something—­anything; I will do it, Miss Winton.”

“Then—­go back to London at once.  You are wasting yourself here, you know.  You said so!”

He looked at her, bewildered and upset, and muttered: 

“You have asked me the one thing I can’t do, Miss—­Miss Gyp!”

“Please—­not that; it’s like a servant!”

“I am your servant!”

“Is that why you won’t do what I ask you?”

“You are cruel.”

Gyp laughed.

He got up and said, with sudden fierceness: 

“I am not going away from you; do not think it.”  Bending with the utmost swiftness, he took her hand, put his lips to it, and turned on his heel.

Gyp, uneasy and astonished, stared at her hand, still tingling from the pressure of his bristly moustache.  Then she laughed again—­it was just “foreign” to have your hand kissed—­and went back to her book, without taking in the words.