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Updated: June 23, 2025
Is there is there going to be a scandal?" "I don't know. I hope not; but, anyway, HE knows about it." "Society doesn't forgive." Summerhay shrugged his shoulders. "Awfully sorry for YOU, Mother." "Oh, Bryan!" This repetition of her plaint jarred his nerves. "Don't run ahead of things. You needn't tell Edith or Flo. You needn't tell anybody. We don't know what'll happen yet."
An hour perhaps passed before he sighed, and, feeling his lips on hers, she knew that she had won. There, in the study, the moonlight had reached her face; an owl was hooting not far away, and still more memories came the happiest of all, perhaps of first days in this old house together. Summerhay damaged himself out hunting that first winter.
Suddenly, across the wan grass the shadow of the pine-trunk moved. It moved ever so little moved! And, petrified Gyp stared. There, joined to the trunk, Summerhay was standing, his face just visible against the stem, the moonlight on one cheek, a hand shading his eyes. He moved that hand, held it out in supplication. For long how long Gyp did not stir, looking straight at that beseeching figure.
Look over there that bit of blue in the grass is my baby daughter. There's her and my father and " "And what?" "I'm afraid afraid of love, Bryan!" At that first use of his name, Summerhay turned pale and seized her hand. "Afraid how afraid?" Gyp said very low: "I might love too much. Don't say any more now. No; don't! Let's go in and have lunch." And she got up.
Summerhay had seated himself on the foot-rail of the bed, rounding his arms, sinking his neck, blowing out his cheeks to simulate an egg; then, with an unexpectedness that even little Gyp could always see through, he rolled backward on to the bed. And she, simulating "all the king's horses," tried in vain to put him up again.
From the moment of surrender, Gyp passed straight into a state the more enchanted because she had never believed in it, had never thought that she could love as she now loved. Days and nights went by in a sort of dream, and when Summerhay was not with her, she was simply waiting with a smile on her lips for the next hour of meeting.
But when the interval came, she did not look round, until his voice said: "How d'you do, Major Winton? Oh, how d'you do?" Winton had been told of the meeting in the train. He was pining for a cigarette, but had not liked to desert his daughter. After a few remarks, he got up and said: "Take my pew a minute, Summerhay, I'm going to have a smoke."
Singing as she rode, her eyes flying here and there, over the field, up to the sky, she felt happier, lighter than thistledown. While they raced along, the old mare kept turning her head and biting at the honeysuckle flowers; and suddenly that chestnut face became the face of Summerhay, looking back at her with his smile. She awoke.
He approved of the dining-room altogether; its narrow oak "last supper" table made gay by a strip of blue linen, old brick hearth, casement windows hung with flowered curtains all had a pleasing austerity, uncannily redeemed to softness. He got on well enough with Summerhay, but he enjoyed himself much more when he was there alone with his daughter.
And, at once, his brain began to search, steely and quick, for some way out; and the expression as when a fox broke covert, came on his face. "Nobody knows, Gyp?" "No; nobody." That was something! With an irritation that rose from his very soul, he muttered: "I can't stand it that you should suffer, and that fellow Fiorsen go scot-free. Can you give up seeing Summerhay while we get you a divorce?
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