It was on the day after he went back to Mildenham that she received a letter from Fiorsen, forwarded from Bury Street.  He was—­it said—­just returning to London; he had not forgotten any look she had ever given him, or any word she had spoken.  He should not rest till he could see her again.  “For a long time,” the letter ended, “before I first saw you, I was like the dead—­lost.  All was bitter apples to me.  Now I am a ship that comes from the whirlpools to a warm blue sea; now I see again the evening star.  I kiss your hands, and am your faithful slave—­Gustav Fiorsen.”  These words, which from any other man would have excited her derision, renewed in Gyp that fluttered feeling, the pleasurable, frightened sense that she could not get away from his pursuit.

She wrote in answer to the address he gave her in London, to say that she was staying for a few days in Curzon Street with her aunt, who would be glad to see him if he cared to come in any afternoon between five and six, and signed herself “Ghita Winton.”  She was long over that little note.  Its curt formality gave her satisfaction.  Was she really mistress of herself—­and him; able to dispose as she wished?  Yes; and surely the note showed it.

It was never easy to tell Gyp’s feelings from her face; even Winton was often baffled.  Her preparation of Aunt Rosamund for the reception of Fiorsen was a masterpiece of casualness.  When he duly came, he, too, seemed doubly alive to the need for caution, only gazing at Gyp when he could not be seen doing so.  But, going out, he whispered:  “Not like this—­not like this; I must see you alone—­I must!” She smiled and shook her head.  But bubbles had come back to the wine in her cup.

That evening she said quietly to Aunt Rosamund: 

“Dad doesn’t like Mr. Fiorsen—­can’t appreciate his playing, of course.”

And this most discreet remark caused Aunt Rosamund, avid—­in a well-bred way—­of music, to omit mention of the intruder when writing to her brother.  The next two weeks he came almost every day, always bringing his violin, Gyp playing his accompaniments, and though his hungry stare sometimes made her feel hot, she would have missed it.

But when Winton next came up to Bury Street, she was in a quandary.  To confess that Fiorsen was here, having omitted to speak of him in her letters?  Not to confess, and leave him to find it out from Aunt Rosamund?  Which was worse?  Seized with panic, she did neither, but told her father she was dying for a gallop.  Hailing that as the best of signs, he took her forthwith back to Mildenham.  And curious were her feelings—­light-hearted, compunctious, as of one who escapes yet knows she will soon be seeking to return.  The meet was rather far next day, but she insisted on riding to it, since old Pettance, the superannuated jockey, charitably employed as extra stable help at Mildenham, was to bring on her second horse.  There was