"
She could feel the watchful tightening of his face. And suddenly he
said:
"Daphne Wing! By George!"
The words were a masterpiece of resentment and distrust. His daughter in
peril from--such as that!
After he was gone Gyp sat on till the sun had quite vanished and the
dew was stealing through her thin frock. She would think of anything,
anybody except herself! To make others happy was the way to be happy--or
so they said. She would try--must try. Betty--so stout, and with that
rheumatism in her leg--did she ever think of herself? Or Aunt Rosamund,
with her perpetual rescuings of lost dogs, lame horses, and penniless
musicians? And Dad, for all his man-of-the-world ways, was he not always
doing little things for the men of his old regiment, always thinking of
her, too, and what he could do to give her pleasure? To love everybody,
and bring them happiness! Was it not possible? Only, people were hard to
love, different from birds and beasts and flowers, to love which seemed
natural and easy.
She went up to her room and began to dress for dinner. Which of her
frocks did he like best? The pale, low-cut amber, or that white,
soft one, with the coffee-dipped lace? She decided on the latter.
Scrutinizing her supple, slender image in the glass, a shudder went
through her. That would all go; she would be like those women taking
careful exercise in the streets, who made her wonder at their hardihood
in showing themselves.
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