wrecked by pride from a few words she had once let drop. She was a tall
and handsome woman, a year older than Winton, with a long, aristocratic
face, deep-blue, rather shining eyes, a gentlemanly manner, warm heart,
and one of those indescribable, not unmelodious drawls that one connects
with an unshakable sense of privilege. She, in turn, was very fond of
Gyp; and what passed within her mind, by no means devoid of shrewdness,
as to their real relationship, remained ever discreetly hidden. She was,
so far again as breeding would allow, something of a humanitarian and
rebel, loving horses and dogs, and hating cats, except when they had
four legs. The girl had just that softness which fascinates women who
perhaps might have been happier if they had been born men. Not that
Rosamund Winton was of an aggressive type--she merely had the resolute
"catch hold of your tail, old fellow" spirit so often found in
Englishwomen of the upper classes. A cheery soul, given to long coats
and waistcoats, stocks, and a crutch-handled stick, she--like her
brother--had "style," but more sense of humour--valuable in musical
circles! At her house, the girl was practically compelled to see fun
as well as merit in all those prodigies, haloed with hair and filled to
overflowing with music and themselves. And, since Gyp's natural sense
of the ludicrous was extreme, she and her aunt could rarely talk about
anything without going into fits of laughter.

Winton had his first really bad attack of gout when Gyp was twenty-two,
and, terrified lest he might not be able to sit a horse in time for the
opening meets, he went off with her and Markey to Wiesbaden. They had
rooms in the Wilhelmstrasse, overlooking the gardens, where leaves
were already turning, that gorgeous September. The cure was long and
obstinate, and Winton badly bored. Gyp fared much better. Attended
by the silent Markey, she rode daily on the Neroberg, chafing at
regulations which reduced her to specified tracks in that majestic