is impression of the figure he had
seen coming down the steps--of those eyes growing rounder and rounder at
sight of him, of that mouth opening in an: "Oh!"

"Much the same. Rather flabbergasted at seeing me, I think. A white
hat--very smart. Attractive in her way, but common, of course. Those
two were playing the piano and fiddle when I went up. They tried not to
let me in, but I wasn't to be put off. Queer place, that!"

Gyp smiled. She could see it all so well. The black walls, the silver
statuettes, Rops drawings, scent of dead rose-leaves and pastilles and
cigarettes--and those two by the piano--and her father so cool and dry!

"One can't stand on ceremony with fellows like that. I hadn't forgotten
that Polish chap's behaviour to you, my dear."

Through Gyp passed a quiver of dread, a vague return of the feelings once
inspired by Rosek.

"I'm almost sorry you went, Dad. Did you say anything very--"

"Did I? Let's see! No; I think I was quite polite." He added, with a
grim, little smile: "I won't swear I didn't call one of them a ruffian.
I know they said something about my presuming on being a cripple."

"Oh, darling!"

"Yes; it was that Polish chap--and so he is!"

Gyp murmured:

"I'd almost rather it had been--the other." Rosek's pale, suave face,
with the eyes behind which there were such hidden things, and the lips
sweetish and restrained and sensual--he would never forgive! But Winton
only smiled again, patting her arm. He was pleased with an encounter
which had relieved his feelings.

Gyp spent all that evening writing her first real love-letter. But when,
next afternoon at six, in fulfilment of its wording, she came to
Summerhay's little house, her heart sank; for the blinds were down and it
had a deserted look. If he had been there, he would have been at the
window, waiting. Had he, then, not got her letter, not been home since
yesterday? And that chill fear which besets lovers' hearts at failure of
a tryst smote her for the first time. In the three-cornered garden stood
a decayed statue of a naked boy with a broken bow--a sparrow was perching
on his greenish shoulder; sooty, heart-shaped lilac leaves hung round his
head, and at his legs the old Scotch terrier was sniffing. Gyp called:
"Ossian! Ossy!" and the old dog came, wagging his tail feebly.

"Master! Where is your master, dear?"

Ossian poked his long nose into her calf, and that gave her a little
comfort. She p