One part of her education, at all events, was not neglected--cultivation
of an habitual sympathy with her poorer neighbours. Without concerning
himself in the least with problems of sociology, Winton had by nature
an open hand and heart for cottagers, and abominated interference with
their lives. And so it came about that Gyp, who, by nature also never
set foot anywhere without invitation, was always hearing the words:
"Step in, Miss Gyp"; "Step in, and sit down, lovey," and a good many
words besides from even the boldest and baddest characters. There
is nothing like a soft and pretty face and sympathetic listening for
seducing the hearts of "the people."

So passed the eleven years till she was nineteen and Winton forty-six.
Then, under the wing of her little governess, she went to the hunt-ball.
She had revolted against appearing a "fluffy miss," wanting to be
considered at once full-fledged; so that her dress, perfect in fit, was
not white but palest maize-colour, as if she had already been to dances.
She had all Winton's dandyism, and just so much more as was appropriate
to her sex. With her dark hair, wonderfully fluffed and coiled, waving
across her forehead, her neck bare for the first time, her eyes really
"flying," and a demeanour perfectly cool--as though she knew that light
and movement, covetous looks, soft speeches, and admiration were her
birthright--she was more beautiful than even Winton had thought her. At
her breast she wore some sprigs of yellow jasmine procured by him from
town--a flower of whose scent she was very fond, and that he had never
seen worn in ballrooms. That swaying, delicate creature, warmed by
excitement, reminded him, in every movement and by every glance of her
eyes, of her whom he had first met at just such a ball as this. And by
the carriage of his head, the twist of his little moustache, he conveyed
to the world the pride he was feeling.