And in this spontaneous unfolding there was
perpetual flattery; Gyp felt through it all, as pretty women will, a
sort of subtle admiration. Presently he asked her if she played piquet.
"Yes; I play with my father nearly every evening."
"Shall we have a game, then?"
She knew he only wanted to play because he could sit nearer, joined by
the evening paper over their knees, hand her the cards after dealing,
touch her hand by accident, look in her face. And this was not
unpleasant; for she, in turn, liked looking at his face, which had
what is called "charm"--that something light and unepiscopal, entirely
lacking to so many solid, handsome, admirable faces.
But even railway journeys come to an end; and when he gripped her hand
to say good-bye, she gave his an involuntary little squeeze. Standing
at her cab window, with his hat raised, the old dog under his arm, and a
look of frank, rather wistful, admiration on his face, he said:
"I shall see you at the opera, then, and in the Row perhaps; and I may
come along to Bury Street, some time, mayn't I?"
Nodding to those friendly words, Gyp drove off through the sultry London
evening. Her father was not back from the dinner, and she went straight
to her room. After so long in the country, it seemed very close in Bury
Street; she put on a wrapper and sat down to brush the train-smoke out
of her hair.
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