A silence followed, during which Mr. and Mrs. Wagge looked at their feet, and Gyp looked at the dog.
“Ah!—here you are!” It was Winton, who had come up from behind the shelter, and stood, with eyebrows slightly raised. Gyp could not help a smile. Her father's weathered, narrow face, half-veiled eyes, thin nose, little crisp, grey moustache that did not hide his firm lips, his lean, erect figure, the very way he stood, his thin, dry, clipped voice were the absolute antithesis of Mr. Wagge's thickset, stoutly planted form, thick-skinned, thick-featured face, thick, rather hoarse yet oily voice. It was as if Providence had arranged a demonstration of the extremes of social type. And she said:
“Mr. and Mrs. Wagge—my father.”
Winton raised his hat. Gyp remained seated, the dog Duckie being still on her feet.
“'Appy to meet you, sir. I hope you have benefit from the waters. They're supposed to be most powerful, I believe.”
“Thank you—not more deadly than most. Are you drinking them?”
Mr. Wagge smiled.
“Nao!” he said, “we live here.”
“Indeed! Do you find anything to do?”
“Well, as a fact, I've come here for rest. But I take a Turkish bath once a fortnight—find it refreshing; keeps the pores of the skin acting.”