knowledge of something about her conspicuous, doubtful, provocative of
insult, as she thought, grievously hurt her delicacy. Those few
wakeful hours made a heavy mark. She fell asleep at last, still all
in confusion, and woke up with a passionate desire to KNOW. All that
morning she sat at her piano, playing, refusing to go out, frigid to
Betty and the little governess, till the former was reduced to tears
and the latter to Wordsworth. After tea she went to Winton's study, that
dingy little room where he never studied anything, with leather chairs
and books which--except "Mr. Jorrocks," Byron, those on the care of
horses, and the novels of Whyte-Melville--were never read; with prints
of superequine celebrities, his sword, and photographs of Gyp and of
brother officers on the walls. Two bright spots there were indeed--the
fire, and the little bowl that Gyp always kept filled with flowers.

When she came gliding in like that, a slender, rounded figure, her
creamy, dark-eyed, oval face all cloudy, she seemed to Winton to have
grown up of a sudden. He had known all day that something was coming,
and had been cudgelling his brains finely. From the fervour of his
love for her, he felt an anxiety that was almost fear. What could
have happened last night--that first night of her entrance into
society--meddlesome, gossiping society! She slid down to the floor
against his knee. He could not see her face, could not even touch her;
for she had settled down on his right side. He mastered his tremors and
said:

"Well, Gyp--tired?"

"No."

"A little bit?"