Who knew to what it might
lead in these days? At great length she explained to Gyp the infinite
care with which she had always "brought Daisy up like a lady--and now
this is the result." And she would look piercingly at Gyp's hair or
ears, at her hands or her instep, to see how it was done. The burial
worried her dreadfully. "I'm using the name of Daisy Wing; she was
christened 'Daisy' and the Wing's professional, so that takes them both
in, and it's quite the truth. But I don't think anyone would connect it,
would they? About the father's name, do you think I might say the late
Mr. Joseph Wing, this once? You see, it never was alive, and I must put
something if they're not to guess the truth, and that I couldn't bear;
Mr. Wagge would be so distressed. It's in his own line, you see. Oh, it
is upsetting!"
Gyp murmured desperately:
"Oh! yes, anything."
Though the girl was so deathly white and spiritless, it soon became
clear that she was going to pull through. With each day, a little more
colour and a little more commonness came back to her. And Gyp felt
instinctively that she would, in the end, return to Fulham purged of her
infatuation, a little harder, perhaps a little deeper.
Late one afternoon toward the end of her week at Mildenham, Gyp wandered
again into the coppice, and sat down on that same log. An hour before
sunset, the light shone level on the yellowing leaves all round her; a
startled rabbit pelted out of the bracken and pelted back again, and,
from the far edge of the little wood, a jay cackled harshly, shifting
its perch from tree to tree.
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