up to say
good-night, both their faces were as though coated with wax.

In the days that followed, she gave no sign, uttered no word in any way
suggesting that she meant to go against his wishes. Fiorsen might not
have existed, for any mention made of him. But Winton knew well that
she was moping, and cherishing some feeling against himself. And this he
could not bear. So, one evening, after dinner, he said quietly:

"Tell me frankly, Gyp; do you care for that chap?"

She answered as quietly:

"In a way--yes."

"Is that enough?"

"I don't know, Dad."

Her lips had quivered; and Winton's heart softened, as it always did
when he saw her moved. He put his hand out, covered one of hers, and
said:

"I shall never stand in the way of your happiness, Gyp. But it must BE
happiness. Can it possibly be that? I don't think so. You know what they
said of him out there?"

"Yes."

He had not thought she knew. And his heart sank.

"That's pretty bad, you know. And is he of our world at all?"

Gyp looked up.

"Do you think I belong to 'our world,' Dad?"

Winton turned away. She followed, slipping her hand under his arm.

"I didn't mean to hurt. But it's true, isn't it? I don't belong among
society people. They wouldn't have me, you know--if they knew about
what you told me. Ever since that I've felt I don't belong to them. I'm
nearer him. Music means more to me than anything!"

Winton gave her hand a convulsive grip. A sense of coming defeat and
bereavement was on him.

"If your happiness went wrong, Gyp, I should be most awfully cut up."

"But why shouldn't I be happy, Dad?"

"If you were, I could put up with anyone. But, I tell you, I can't
believe you would be. I beg you, my dear--for God's sake, make sure.
I'll put a bullet into the man who treats you badly."

Gyp laughed, then kissed him. But they were silent. At bedtime he said:

"We'll go up to town to-morrow."

Whether from a feeling of the inevitable, or from the forlorn hope that
seeing more of the fellow might be the only chance of curing her--he put
no more obstacles in the way.

And the queer courtship began again. By Christmas she had consented,
still under the impression that she was the mistress, not the slave--the
cat, not the bird. Once or twice, when Fiorsen let passion out of hand
and his overbold caresses affronted her, she recoiled almost with dread
from what she was going toward. But, in general, she lived elated,
intoxicated by mus