me!"

"Ghita."

"Ghita? Not soft enough."

"I am always called Gyp."

"Gyp--ah, Gyp! Yes; Gyp!"

He repeated her name so impersonally that she could not be angry.

"I told your father I have had the pleasure of meeting you. He was very
polite."

Gyp said coldly:

"My father is always polite."

"Like the ice in which they put champagne."

Gyp smiled; she could not help it.

And suddenly he said:

"I suppose they have told you that I am a mauvais sujet." Gyp inclined
her head. He looked at her steadily, and said: "It is true. But I could
be better--much."

She wanted to look at him, but could not. A queer sort of exultation had