She had her fill of music in those days, taking piano lessons from a Monsieur Harmost, a grey-haired native of Liege, with mahogany cheeks and the touch of an angel, who kept her hard at it and called her his “little friend.”  There was scarcely a concert of merit that she did not attend or a musician of mark whose playing she did not know, and, though fastidiousness saved her from squirming in adoration round the feet of those prodigious performers, she perched them all on pedestals, men and women alike, and now and then met them at her aunt’s house in Curzon Street.

Aunt Rosamund, also musical, so far as breeding would allow, stood for a good deal to Gyp, who had built up about her a romantic story of love wrecked by pride from a few words she had once let drop.  She was a tall and handsome woman, a year older than Winton, with a long, aristocratic face, deep-blue, rather shining eyes, a gentlemanly manner, warm heart, and one of those indescribable, not unmelodious drawls that one connects with an unshakable sense of privilege.  She, in turn, was very fond of Gyp; and what passed within her mind, by no means devoid of shrewdness, as to their real relationship, remained ever discreetly hidden.  She was, so far again as breeding would allow, something of a humanitarian and rebel, loving horses and dogs, and hating cats, except when they had four legs.  The girl had just that softness which fascinates women who perhaps might have been happier if they had been born men.  Not that Rosamund Winton was of an aggressive type—­she merely had the resolute “catch hold of your tail, old fellow” spirit so often found in Englishwomen of the upper classes.  A cheery soul, given to long coats and waistcoats, stocks, and a crutch-handled stick, she—­like her brother—­had “style,” but more sense of humour—­valuable in musical circles!  At her house, the girl was practically compelled to see fun as well as merit in all those prodigies, haloed with hair and filled to overflowing with music and themselves.  And, since Gyp’s natural sense of the ludicrous was extreme, she and her aunt could rarely talk about anything without going into fits of laughter.

Winton had his first really bad attack of gout when Gyp was twenty-two, and, terrified lest he might not be able to sit a horse in time for the opening meets, he went off with her and Markey to Wiesbaden.  They had rooms in the Wilhelmstrasse, overlooking the gardens, where leaves were already turning, that gorgeous September.  The cure was long and obstinate, and Winton badly bored.  Gyp fared much better.  Attended by the silent Markey, she rode daily on the Neroberg, chafing at regulations which reduced her to specified tracks in that majestic wood where the beeches glowed.  Once or even twice a day she went to the concerts in the Kurhaus, either with her father or alone.