But how far did Winton understand, how far see what was going on?  He was a stoic; but that did not prevent jealousy from taking alarm, and causing him twinges more acute than those he still felt in his left foot.  He was afraid of showing disquiet by any dramatic change, or he would have carried her off a fortnight at least before his cure was over.  He knew too well the signs of passion.  That long, loping, wolfish fiddling fellow with the broad cheekbones and little side-whiskers (Good God!) and greenish eyes whose looks at Gyp he secretly marked down, roused his complete distrust.  Perhaps his inbred English contempt for foreigners and artists kept him from direct action.  He could not take it quite seriously.  Gyp, his fastidious perfect Gyp, succumbing, even a little to a fellow like that!  Never!  His jealous affection, too, could not admit that she would neglect to consult him in any doubt or difficulty.  He forgot the sensitive secrecy of girls, forgot that his love for her had ever shunned words, her love for him never indulged in confidences.  Nor did he see more than a little of what there was to see, and that little was doctored by Fiorsen for his eyes, shrewd though they were.  Nor was there in all so very much, except one episode the day before they left, and of that he knew nothing.

That last afternoon was very still, a little mournful.  It had rained the night before, and the soaked tree-trunks, the soaked fallen leaves gave off a faint liquorice-like perfume.  In Gyp there was a feeling, as if her spirit had been suddenly emptied of excitement and delight.  Was it the day, or the thought of leaving this place where she had so enjoyed herself?  After lunch, when Winton was settling his accounts, she wandered out through the long park stretching up the valley.  The sky was brooding-grey, the trees were still and melancholy.  It was all a little melancholy, and she went on and on, across the stream, round into a muddy lane that led up through the outskirts of a village, on to the higher ground whence she could return by the main road.  Why must things come to an end?  For the first time in her life, she thought of Mildenham and hunting without enthusiasm.  She would rather stay in London.  There she would not be cut off from music, from dancing, from people, and all the exhilaration of being appreciated.  On the air came the shrilly, hollow droning of a thresher, and the sound seemed exactly to express her feelings.  A pigeon flew over, white against the leaden sky; some birch-trees that had gone golden shivered and let fall a shower of drops.  It was lonely here!  And, suddenly, two little boys bolted out of the hedge, nearly upsetting her, and scurried down the road.  Something had startled them.  Gyp, putting up her face to see, felt on it soft pin-points of rain.  Her frock would be spoiled, and it was one she was fond of—­dove-coloured, velvety, not meant for weather.  She turned for