“And how long?”
“Only a year.”
Gyp said very softly:
“Poor darling Dad.” And suddenly she added: “I can't bear to think I killed her—I can't bear it!”
Winton got up in the discomfort of these sudden confidences; a blackbird, startled by the movement, ceased his song. Gyp said in a hard voice:
“No; I don't want to have any children.”
“Without that, I shouldn't have had you, Gyp.”
“No; but I don't want to have them. And I don't—I don't want to love like that. I should be afraid.”
Winton looked at her for a long time without speaking, his brows drawn down, frowning, puzzled, as though over his own past.
“Love,” he said, “it catches you, and you're gone. When it comes, you welcome it, whether it's to kill you or not. Shall we start back, my child?”