What the devil am I to do about her?'
Summerhay sat down. Gyp had a queer feeling, then, as if the house
and people vanished, and they two were back again in the
railway-carriage--alone together. Ten minutes to make the most of! To
smile and talk, and enjoy the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice
and laugh. To laugh, too, and be warm and nice to him. Why not? They
were friends. And, presently, she said, smiling:
"Oh, by the way, there's a picture in the National Gallery, I want you
to look at."
"Yes? Which? Will you take me?"
"If you like."
"To-morrow's Saturday; may I meet you there? What time? Three?"
Gyp nodded. She knew she was flushing, and, at that moment, with the
warmth in her cheeks and the smile in her eyes, she had the sensation,
so rare and pleasant, of feeling beautiful. Then he was gone! Her father
was slipping back into his stall; and, afraid of her own face, she
touched his arm, and murmured:
"Dad, do look at that head-dress in the next row but one; did you ever
see anything so delicious!"
And while Winton was star-gazing, the orchestra struck up the overture
to "Pagliacci." Watching that heart-breaking little plot unfold, Gyp
had something more than the old thrill, as if for the first time she
understood it with other than her aesthetic sense. Poor Nedda! and poor
Canio! Poor Silvio! Her breast heaved, and her eyes filled with tears.
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