HIS face then had borne the brunt; hers had been turned
away from inquisition. But he did not speak of this to Gyp.
She drank two full glasses of wine before she told him her news. He took
it with the expression she knew so well--tightening his lips and staring
a little upward. Then he said quietly:
"When?"
"November, Dad."
A shudder, not to be repressed, went through Winton. The very month!
And stretching his hand across the table, he took hers and pressed it
tightly.
"It'll be all right, child; I'm glad."
Clinging to his hand, Gyp murmured:
"I'm not; but I won't be frightened--I promise."
Each was trying to deceive the other; and neither was deceived. But both
were good at putting a calm face on things. Besides, this was "a night
out"--for her, the first since her marriage--of freedom, of feeling
somewhat as she used to feel with all before her in a ballroom of a
world; for him, the unfettered resumption of a dear companionship and a
stealthy revel in the past. After his, "So he's gone to Ostend?" and
his thought: 'He would!' they never alluded to Fiorsen, but talked
of horses, of Mildenham--it seemed to Gyp years since she had been
there--of her childish escapades. And, looking at him quizzically, she
asked:
"What were you like as a boy, Dad? Aunt Rosamund says that you used to
get into white rages when nobody could go near you.
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