“I can't!”
Gyp said slowly:
“Oh! Very well!”
A dead silence followed, both lying quiet in the darkness, trying to get the better of each other by sheer listening. An hour perhaps passed before he sighed, and, feeling his lips on hers, she knew that she had won.
III
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. The memory of nursing him was strangely pleasant, now that it was two years old. For convalescence they had gone to the Pyrenees—Argeles in March, all almond-blossom and snows against the blue—a wonderful fortnight. In London on the way back they had their first awkward encounter. Coming out of a theatre one evening, Gyp heard a woman's voice, close behind, say: “Why, it's Bryan! What ages!” And his answer defensively drawled out:
“Halo! How are you, Diana?”
“Oh, awfully fit. Where are you, nowadays? Why don't you come and see us?”
Again the drawl: