"
They were silent, smiling, as people will in remembrance of a good run.
Then, looking at the dog, Gyp said softly:
"HE looks rather a darling. How old?"
"Twelve. Beastly when dogs get old!"
There was another little silence while he contemplated her steadily with
his clear eyes.
"I came over to call once--with my mother; November the year before
last. Somebody was ill."
"Yes--I."
"Badly?"
Gyp shook her head.
"I heard you were married--" The little drawl in his voice had
increased, as though covering the abruptness of that remark. Gyp looked
up.
"Yes; but my little daughter and I live with my father again." What
"came over" her--as they say--to be so frank, she could not have told.
He said simply:
"Ah! I've often thought it queer I've never seen you since. What a run
that was!"
"Perfect! Was that your mother on the platform?"
"Yes--and my sister Edith. Extraordinary dead-alive place, Widrington; I
expect Mildenham isn't much better?"
"It's very quiet, but I like it."
"By the way, I don't know your name now?"
"Fiorsen."
"Oh, yes! The violinist. Life's a bit of a gamble, isn't it?"
Gyp did not answer that odd remark, did not quite know what to make of
this audacious young man, whose hazel eyes and lazy smile were queerly
lovable, but whose face in repose had such a broad gravity. He took from
his pocket a little red book.
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