Winton smiled grimly. How to convey his impression of the figure he had seen coming down the steps—of those eyes growing rounder and rounder at sight of him, of that mouth opening in an: “Oh!”
“Much the same. Rather flabbergasted at seeing me, I think. A white hat—very smart. Attractive in her way, but common, of course. Those two were playing the piano and fiddle when I went up. They tried not to let me in, but I wasn't to be put off. Queer place, that!”
Gyp smiled. She could see it all so well. The black walls, the silver statuettes, Rops drawings, scent of dead rose-leaves and pastilles and cigarettes—and those two by the piano—and her father so cool and dry!
“One can't stand on ceremony with fellows like that. I hadn't forgotten that Polish chap's behaviour to you, my dear.”
Through Gyp passed a quiver of dread, a vague return of the feelings once inspired by Rosek.
“I'm almost sorry you went, Dad. Did you say anything very—”
“Did I? Let's see! No; I think I was quite polite.” He added, with a grim, little smile: “I won't swear I didn't call one of them a ruffian. I know they said something about my presuming on being a cripple.”
“Oh, darling!”
“Yes; it was that Polish chap—and so he is!”
Gyp murmured: