r of it. She was careful not to
suggest that he should go away without her, knowing his perversity. But
when he proposed that she should come to Ostend with him and Rosek, she
answered, after seeming deliberation, that she thought she had better
not--she would rather stay at home quite quietly; but he must certainly
go and get a good holiday.

When he was really gone, peace fell on Gyp--peace such as one feels,
having no longer the tight, banded sensations of a fever. To be without
that strange, disorderly presence in the house! When she woke in the
sultry silence of the next morning, she utterly failed to persuade
herself that she was missing him, missing the sound of his breathing,
the sight of his rumpled hair on the pillow, the outline of his long
form under the sheet. Her heart was devoid of any emptiness or ache; she
only felt how pleasant and cool and tranquil it was to lie there alone.
She stayed quite late in bed. It was delicious, with window and door
wide open and the puppies running in and out, to lie and doze off, or
listen to the pigeons' cooing, and the distant sounds of traffic, and
feel in command once more of herself, body and soul. Now that she had
told Fiorsen, she had no longer any desire to keep her condition secret.
Feeling that it would hurt her father to learn of it from anyone but
herself, she telephoned to tell him she was alone, and asked if she
might come to Bury Street and dine with him.

Winton had not gone away, because, between Goodwood and Doncaster there
was no racing that he cared for; one could not ride at this time of
year, so might just as well be in London. In fact, August was perhaps
the pleasantest of all months in town; the club was empty, and he could
sit there without some old bore buttonholing him. Little Boncarte, the
fencing-master, was always free for a bout--Winton had long learned to
make his left hand what his right hand used to be; the Turkish baths in
Jermyn Street were nearly void of their fat clients; he could saunter
over to Covent Garden, buy a melon, and carry it home without meeting
any but the most inferior duchesses in Piccadilly; on warm nights he
could stroll the streets or the parks, smoking his cigar, his hat pushed
back to cool his forehead, thinking vague thoughts, recalling vague
memories. He received the news that his daughter was alone and free from
that fellow with something like delight. Where should he dine her? Mrs.
Markey was on her holiday. Wh