"
And there passed through Gyp the thought that she could never again be
friends with a man without giving that pause. Then, conscious that her
father was gazing at her, she turned and said:
"Well, was it nice in the Park?"
"Thirty years ago they were all nobs and snobs; now God himself doesn't
know what they are!"
"But weren't the flowers nice?"
"Ah--and the trees, and the birds--but, by Jove, the humans do their
best to dress the balance!"
"What a misanthrope you're getting!"
"I'd like to run a stud for two-leggers; they want proper breeding. What
sort of a fellow is young Summerhay? Not a bad face."
She answered impassively:
"Yes; it's so alive."
In spite of his self-control, she could always read her father's
thoughts quicker than he could read hers, and knew that he was
struggling between the wish that she should have a good time and the
desire to convey some kind of warning. He said, with a sigh:
"What does a young man's fancy turn to in summer, Gyp?"
Women who have subtle instincts and some experience are able to impose
their own restraint on those who, at the lifting of a hand, would become
their lovers. From that afternoon on, Gyp knew that a word from her
would change everything; but she was far from speaking it. And yet,
except at week-ends, when she went back to her baby at Mildenham, she
saw Summerhay most days--in the Row, at the opera, or at Bury Street.
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