Gyp nodded.  She knew she was flushing, and, at that moment, with the warmth in her cheeks and the smile in her eyes, she had the sensation, so rare and pleasant, of feeling beautiful.  Then he was gone!  Her father was slipping back into his stall; and, afraid of her own face, she touched his arm, and murmured: 

“Dad, do look at that head-dress in the next row but one; did you ever see anything so delicious!”

And while Winton was star-gazing, the orchestra struck up the overture to “Pagliacci.”  Watching that heart-breaking little plot unfold, Gyp had something more than the old thrill, as if for the first time she understood it with other than her aesthetic sense.  Poor Nedda! and poor Canio!  Poor Silvio!  Her breast heaved, and her eyes filled with tears.  Within those doubled figures of the tragi-comedy she seemed to see, to feel that passionate love—­too swift, too strong, too violent, sweet and fearful within them.

 “Thou hast my heart, and I am thine for ever
—­To-night and for ever I am thine! 
  What is there left to me?  What have I but a heart that is broken?”

And the clear, heart-aching music mocking it all, down to those last words: 

La commedia e finita!

While she was putting on her cloak, her eyes caught Summerhay’s.  She tried to smile—­could not, gave a shake of her head, slowly forced her gaze away from his, and turned to follow Winton.

At the National Gallery, next day, she was not late by coquetry, but because she had changed her dress at the last minute, and because she was afraid of letting him think her eager.  She saw him at once standing under the colonnade, looking by no means imperturbable, and marked the change in his face when he caught sight of her, with a little thrill.  She led him straight up into the first Italian room to contemplate his counterfeit.  A top hat and modern collar did not improve the likeness, but it was there still.

“Well!  Do you like it?”

“Yes.  What are you smiling at?”

“I’ve had a photograph of that, ever since I was fifteen; so you see I’ve known you a long time.”

He stared.

“Great Scott!  Am I like that?  All right; I shall try and find you now.”

But Gyp shook her head.

“No.  Come and look at my very favourite picture ‘The Death of Procris.’  What is it makes one love it so?  Procris is out of drawing, and not beautiful; the faun’s queer and ugly.  What is it—­can you tell?”

Summerhay looked not at the picture, but at her.  In aesthetic sense, he was not her equal.  She said softly: 

“The wonder in the faun’s face, Procris’s closed eyes; the dog, and the swans, and the pity for what might have been!”

Summerhay repeated: 

“Ah, for what might have been!  Did you enjoy ’Pagliacci’?”

Gyp shivered.

“I think I felt it too much.”