He thought Mrs. Gordon looked a little worn and anxious, possibly her Indian bear had been unusually selfish and savage. Poor woman, when she married Gordon twelve years previously, a pretty, simple country clergyman's daughter, longing to see the East, and strongly recommended to the bear by his maiden aunts—he had come home to look for a wife precisely as he would for a camera or a bicycle—she little dreamt of the life that she was doomed to live, the stones for bread, the serpents for fish, and yet how she kept her sorrows to herself, what reticence, self-control, and womanly dignity; who ever heard her complain of a hard taskmaster, his iron rule, and her barren life? After dinner Angel sang; it seemed to be expected as part of the evening's entertainment. Major Gascoigne leant against the wall in the background, and marvelled and listened. She stood behind her accompanist and facing the room, and when Angel opened her mouth to sing she still continued to look charming. She wore a white dress trimmed with shining silver, it had a low neck and long sleeves, according to the fashion; a few crimson roses were fastened in the bodice, a little chain and locket encircled her long throat; the expression of her eyes was interesting to watch—what passion lay dormant in those deep blue orbs—who would be the happy man on whom they would ultimately smile? There was no question that his ward possessed the fatal gift, and he could hardly realise that this charming, enchanting and destroying Angel was the little forlorn creature whom he had educated and befriended. He thought of her grandmother's furious letter, which had swiftly followed on the runaway; it was evidently written when the heart of the writer was hot within her. It said, "Angel is her mother's own daughter, though I was never brought into personal contact with that adventuress, who robbed me of my youngest son. It was about this woman that we quarrelled, her daughter and I; in a fury she left me, and fled to you; regardless of appearances, duty, or gratitude. I wash my hands of her absolutely, and I deplore your fate." When the party was breaking up, Philip Gascoigne snatched a few words with his ward, who was closely invested by her admirers. They were planning a riding party for the following morning; any number of perfect horses were preferred for her selection, her usual mount being lame. "I will send over a pretty little Arab, that will carry you perfectly," suggested her guardian. "Thank you very much, Philip, but I've almost decided to ride Captain de Horsay's polo pony, who can't bear women, and shies when he sees one—riding him will be an experience." "You may say so," put in Captain de Horsay's rival, "much better ride my stud bred—you'll never hold him." "Well, I shall try, and if he bolts, he can boast that he ran away with a lady, and his character as a woman-hater will be gone. Yes, please, Captain de Horsay, I'll have Schopenhauer at half-past six."