causing him twinges more acute than those he still felt in his left
foot. He was afraid of showing disquiet by any dramatic change, or he
would have carried her off a fortnight at least before his cure was
over. He knew too well the signs of passion. That long, loping, wolfish
fiddling fellow with the broad cheekbones and little side-whiskers (Good
God!) and greenish eyes whose looks at Gyp he secretly marked down,
roused his complete distrust. Perhaps his inbred English contempt for
foreigners and artists kept him from direct action. He COULD not take
it quite seriously. Gyp, his fastidious perfect Gyp, succumbing, even a
little to a fellow like that! Never! His jealous affection, too,
could not admit that she would neglect to consult him in any doubt or
difficulty. He forgot the sensitive secrecy of girls, forgot that his
love for her had ever shunned words, her love for him never indulged in
confidences. Nor did he see more than a little of what there was to see,
and that little was doctored by Fiorsen for his eyes, shrewd though
they were. Nor was there in all so very much, except one episode the day
before they left, and of that he knew nothing.

That last afternoon was very still, a little mournful. It had rained the
night before, and the soaked tree-trunks, the soaked fallen leaves gave
off a faint liquorice-like perfume. In Gyp there was a feeling, as if
her spirit had been suddenly emptied of excitement and delight. Was it
the day, or the thought of leaving this place where she had so enjoyed
herself? After lunch, when Winton was settling his accounts, she
wandered out through the long park stretching up the valley. The sky was
brooding-grey, the trees were still and melancholy. It was all a little
melancholy, and she went on and on, across the stream, round into a
muddy lane that led up through the outskirts of a village, on to the
higher ground whence she could return by the main road. Why must things
come to an end? For the first time in her life, she thought of Mildenham