hat were you like as a boy, Dad? Aunt Rosamund says that you used to
get into white rages when nobody could go near you. She says you were
always climbing trees, or shooting with a catapult, or stalking things,
and that you never told anybody what you didn't want to tell them. And
weren't you desperately in love with your nursery-governess?"

Winton smiled. How long since he had thought of that first affection.
Miss Huntley! Helena Huntley--with crinkly brown hair, and blue eyes,
and fascinating frocks! He remembered with what grief and sense of
bitter injury he heard in his first school-holidays that she was gone.
And he said:

"Yes, yes. By Jove, what a time ago! And my father's going off to India.
He never came back; killed in that first Afghan business. When I
was fond, I WAS fond. But I didn't feel things like you--not half so
sensitive. No; not a bit like you, Gyp."

And watching her unconscious eyes following the movements of the
waiters, never staring, but taking in all that was going on, he thought:
'Prettiest creature in the world!'

"Well," he said: "What would you like to do now--drop into a theatre or
music-hall, or what?"

Gyp shook her head. It was so hot. Could they just drive, and then
perhaps sit in the park? That would be lovely. It had gone dark, and
the air was not quite so exhausted--a little freshness of scent from
the trees in the squares and parks mingled with the fumes of dung and
petrol. Winton gave the same order he had given that long past evening:
"Knightsbridge Gate." It had been a hansom then, and the night air had
blown in their faces, instead of as now in these infernal taxis, down
the back of one's neck. They left the cab and crossed the Row; passed
the end of the Long Water, up among the trees. There, on two chairs
covered by Winton's coat, they sat side by side. No dew was falling
yet; the heavy leaves hung unstirring; the air was warm, sweet-smelling.
Blotted against trees or on the grass were other couples darker than the
darkness, very silent. All was quiet save for the never-ceasing hum of
traffic. From Winton's lips, the cigar smoke wreathed and curled. He
was dreaming. The cigar between his teeth trembled; a long ash fell.
Mechanically he raised his hand to brush it off--his right hand! A voice
said softly in his ear:

"Isn't it delicious, and warm, and gloomy black?"

Winton shivered, as one shivers recalled from dreams; and, carefully
brushing off the ash with his lef