Gyp had, as it were, an extra touch of "breeding,"
more chiselling in body, more fastidiousness in soul, a little more
poise, a little more sheer grace; in mood, more variance, in mind, more
clarity and, mixed with her sweetness, a distinct spice of scepticism
which her mother had lacked.
In modern times there are no longer "toasts," or she would have been one
with both the hunts. Though delicate in build, she was not frail, and
when her blood was up would "go" all day, and come in so bone-tired that
she would drop on to the tiger skin before the fire, rather than face
the stairs. Life at Mildenham was lonely, save for Winton's hunting
cronies, and they but few, for his spiritual dandyism did not gladly
suffer the average country gentleman and his frigid courtesy frightened
women.
Besides, as Betty had foreseen, tongues did wag--those tongues of the
countryside, avid of anything that might spice the tedium of dull lives
and brains. And, though no breath of gossip came to Winton's ears,
no women visited at Mildenham. Save for the friendly casual
acquaintanceships of churchyard, hunting-field, and local race-meetings,
Gyp grew up knowing hardly any of her own sex. This dearth developed
her reserve, kept her backward in sex-perception, gave her a faint,
unconscious contempt for men--creatures always at the beck and call of
her smile, and so easily disquieted by a little frown--gave her also a
secret yearning for companions of her own gender.
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