I don't like it for this sort--too perfect, too sensitive; her
face touches you so!'
Gyp murmured again:
"I'd like to see my father, please; and rather quick."
The nurse, after one swift look, went out.
Gyp, who had clinched her hands under the bedclothes, fixed her eyes
on the window. November! Acorns and the leaves--the nice, damp, earthy
smell! Acorns all over the grass. She used to drive the old retriever
in harness on the lawn covered with acorns and the dead leaves, and the
wind still blowing them off the trees--in her brown velvet--that was a
ducky dress! Who was it had called her once "a wise little owl," in
that dress? And, suddenly, her heart sank. The pain was coming again.
Winton's voice from the door said:
"Well, my pet?"
"It was only to see how you are. I'm all right. What sort of a day is
it? You'll go riding, won't you? Give my love to the horses. Good-bye,
Dad; just for now."
Her forehead was wet to his lips.
Outside, in the passage, her smile, like something actual on the air,
preceded him--the smile that had just lasted out. But when he was back
in the study, he suffered--suffered! Why could he not have that pain to
bear instead?
The crunch of the brougham brought his ceaseless march over the carpet
to an end. He went out into the hall and looked into the doctor's
face--he had forgotten that this old fellow knew nothing of his special
reason for deadly fear.
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