“Why?”
“Divorce-court! Ugh! I couldn't!”
“Yes, I know—it's hellish!”
Was he, who gripped her hand so hard and said that, really the same nonchalant young man who had leaned out of the carriage window, gurgling with laughter? And what had made the difference? She buried her face in the heliotrope, whose perfume seemed the memory of his visit; then, going to the piano, began to play. She played Debussy, McDowell, Ravel; the chords of modern music suited her feelings just then. And she was still playing when her father came in. During these last nine months of his daughter's society, he had regained a distinct measure of youthfulness, an extra twist in his little moustache, an extra touch of dandyism in his clothes, and the gloss of his short hair. Gyp stopped playing at once, and shut the piano.
“Mr. Summerhay's been here, Dad. He was sorry to miss you.”
There was an appreciable pause before Winton answered:
“My dear, I doubt it.”
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!”