“Yes, here, please.”
Winton came in all brisk and elated at sight of her after this long absence; and, throwing her arms round his neck, she hugged him tight. He was doubly precious to her after the encounter she had just gone though. When he had given her news of Mildenham and little Gyp, he looked at her steadily, and said:
“The coast'll be clear for you both down there, and at Bury Street, whenever you like to come, Gyp. I shall regard this as your real marriage. I shall have the servants in and make that plain.”
A row like family prayers—and Dad standing up very straight, saying in his dry way: “You will be so good in future as to remember—” “I shall be obliged if you will,” and so on; Betty's round face pouting at being brought in with all the others; Markey's soft, inscrutable; Mrs. Markey's demure and goggling; the maids' rabbit-faces; old Pettance's carved grin the film lifting from his little burning eyes: “Ha! Mr. Bryn Summer'ay; he bought her orse, and so she's gone to 'im!” And she said:
“Darling, I don't know! It's awfully sweet of you. We'll see later.”
Winton patted her hand. “We must stand up to 'em, you know, Gyp. You mustn't get your tail down.”
Gyp laughed.
“No, Dad; never!”
That same night, across the strip of blackness between their beds, she said:
“Bryan, promise me something!”