In the little low-roofed inner lounge of that old hotel, whose rooms were all "entirely renovated," Gyp saw her visitor standing at a table, rapidly turning the pages of an illustrated magazine, as people will when their minds are set upon a coming operation.
And she thought: 'I believe she's more frightened than I am!'
Lady Summerhay held out a gloved hand.
"How do you do?" she said. "I hope you'll forgive my coming."Gyp took the hand.
"Thank you. It was very good of you. I'm sorry Bryan isn't in yet. Will you have some tea?""I've had tea; but do let's sit down. How do you find the hotel?""Very nice."
On a velvet lounge that had survived the renovation, they sat side by side, screwed round toward each other.
"Bryan's told me what a pleasant time you had abroad. He's looking very well, I think. I'm devoted to him, you know."Gyp answered softly:
"Yes, you must be." And her heart felt suddenly as hard as flint.
Lady Summerhay gave her a quick look.
"I--I hope you won't mind my being frank--I've been so worried.
It's an unhappy position, isn't it?" Gyp did not answer, and she hurried on. "If there's anything I can do to help, I should be so glad--it must be horrid for you."Gyp said very quietly:
"Oh! no. I'm perfectly happy--couldn't be happier." And she thought: 'I suppose she doesn't believe that.'
Lady Summerhay was looking at her fixedly.
"One doesn't realize these things at first--neither of you will, till you see how dreadfully Society can cold-shoulder."Gyp made an effort to control a smile.
"One can only be cold-shouldered if one puts oneself in the way of it. I should never wish to see or speak to anyone who couldn't take me just for what I am. And I don't really see what difference it will make to Bryan; most men of his age have someone, somewhere." She felt malicious pleasure watching her visitor jib and frown at the cynicism of that soft speech; a kind of hatred had come on her of this society woman, who--disguise it as she would--was at heart her enemy, who regarded her, must regard her, as an enslaver, as a despoiler of her son's worldly chances, a Delilah dragging him down. She said still more quietly: "He need tell no one of my existence; and you can be quite sure that if ever he feels he's had enough of me, he'll never be troubled by the sight of me again."And she got up. Lady Summerhay also rose.
"I hope you don't think--I really am only too anxious to--""I think it's better to be quite frank. You will never like me, or forgive me for ensnaring Bryan. And so it had better be, please, as it would be if I were just his common mistress. That will be perfectly all right for both of us. It was very good of you to come, though. Thank you--and good-bye."Lady Summerhay literally faltered with speech and hand.
With a malicious smile, Gyp watched her retirement among the little tables and elaborately modern chairs till her tall figure had disappeared behind a column. Then she sat down again on the lounge, pressing her hands to her burning ears. She had never till then known the strength of the pride-demon within her; at the moment, it was almost stronger than her love. She was still sitting there, when the page-boy brought her another card--her father's. She sprang up saying:
"Yes, here, please."
Winton came in all brisk and elated at sight of her after this long absence; and, throwing her arms round his neck, she hugged him tight. He was doubly precious to her after the encounter she had just gone though. When he had given her news of Mildenham and little Gyp, he looked at her steadily, and said:
"The coast'll be clear for you both down there, and at Bury Street, whenever you like to come, Gyp. I shall regard this as your real marriage. I shall have the servants in and make that plain."A row like family prayers--and Dad standing up very straight, saying in his dry way: "You will be so good in future as to remember--" "I shall be obliged if you will," and so on; Betty's round face pouting at being brought in with all the others;Markey's soft, inscrutable; Mrs. Markey's demure and goggling; the maids' rabbit-faces; old Pettance's carved grin the film lifting from his little burning eyes: "Ha! Mr. Bryn Summer'ay; he bought her orse, and so she's gone to 'im!" And she said:
"Darling, I don't know! It's awfully sweet of you. We'll see later."Winton patted her hand. "We must stand up to 'em, you know, Gyp.
You mustn't get your tail down."
Gyp laughed.
"No, Dad; never!"
That same night, across the strip of blackness between their beds, she said:
"Bryan, promise me something!"
"It depends. I know you too well."
"No; it's quite reasonable, and possible. Promise!""All right; if it is."
"I want you to let me take the lease of the Red House--let it be mine, the whole thing--let me pay for everything there.""Reasonable! What's the point?"
"Only that I shall have a proper home of my own. I can't explain, but your mother's coming to-day made me feel I must.""My child, how could I possibly live on YOU there? It's absurd!""You can pay for everything else; London--travelling--clothes, if you like. We can make it square up. It's not a question of money, of course. I only want to feel that if, at any moment, you don't need me any more, you can simply stop coming.""I think that's brutal, Gyp."
"No, no; so many women lose men's love because they seem to claim things of them. I don't want to lose yours that way--that's all.""That's silly, darling!"
"It's not. Men--and women, too--always tug at chains. And when there is no chain--""Well then; let me take the house, and you can go away when you're tired of me." His voice sounded smothered, resentful; she could hear him turning and turning, as if angry with his pillows. And she murmured:
"No; I can't explain. But I really mean it."
"We're just beginning life together, and you talk as if you want to split it up. It hurts, Gyp, and that's all about it."She said gently:
"Don't be angry, dear."
"Well! Why don't you trust me more?"
"I do. Only I must make as sure as I can."
The sound came again of his turning and turning.
"I can't!"
Gyp said slowly:
