As soon as Mrs. Flant began to "talk" there were whispers; hitherto there were no two male opinions respecting Miss Gascoigne's beauty, her figure, her vivacity, her charm—now there were no two female opinions respecting her—reputation. Mrs. Scott had requested Mrs. Gordon in a peculiarly pointed manner, not to bring Miss Gascoigne to her dance, and Mrs. Gordon had replied with stately emphasis: "Certainly not, and I shall remain at home with my guest." Then Mrs. Scott had grown pink, red, scarlet—a Commissioner's wife is a dangerous woman to snub (in India), and Mrs. Gordon was the wife of a Commissioner. "Of course you are the last to hear the station scandal," she burst out, "and there is such a thing as being too charitable. You don't know what people are saying about Philip Gascoigne and his—ward." "You need not hesitate. She is his ward—what more?" "When Mrs. Flant discovered——" "Oh, Mrs. Flant is a Christopher Columbus for—new scandals and mare's nests." "Well, at any rate, she surprised Major Gascoigne and his ward in a lonely bungalow in the hills, perfectly happy and at home together. She says she believes they were there for weeks." "And even so?" "Mrs. Gordon," rising and evidently preparing to shake the dust off her feet, "if you had young people—you would never be so lax. Miss Gascoigne is pretty in a certain odd French style—she is grown up, and what is Major Gascoigne?" "Her guardian—her mother——" "No," interrupting wildly; "an attractive bachelor in the prime of life—many people consider him the handsomest man in the station." "But what has that got to do with the question?" "Oh, my dear Mrs. Gordon!" Here Mrs. Scott shrugged her shoulders, and with a dramatic "Good afternoon," stalked out of the great drawing-room. It was in the air, and in people's eyes. Mrs. Gordon felt it, and saw it, although Angel at her side, all white muslin, and smiles, was as innocent as any May-day lamb, who fails to see in the approaching figure in a blue overall—the arbiter of its fate. * * * * * Whilst the station was simmering to boiling-point, Major Gascoigne returned to Marwar, and dined at the Gordons' on the night of his arrival. He arrived late, just in time to take his partner in to dinner; it was not a so-called "Burra Khana," but merely a friendly informal affair, half-a-dozen of the station boys, a couple "passing through," Angel, and himself. As for Angel, it seemed to him that his prognostications had been fulfilled. She looked brilliantly lovely, yes, that was the adjective, her colour was like a rose, her eyes shone. She carried herself with an air, though she chattered any quantity of fascinating nonsense. She was irresistible, and all the boys bowed down before her, like the sheaves of Joseph's brethren.