"It would simplify matters, certainly," acquiesced the Padre. "Miss Gascoigne did an extraordinarily foolish thing when she rushed out to India and hurled herself into your charge. She never realised the gravity of the step she was taking. I gather that she is a girl to act first, and then to sit down and think? In the present instance she will have to sit down and repent in sackcloth and ashes for the injury she has done to herself—and you." "Oh, never mind me," broke in his companion impatiently, "what is to be done about her? I cannot offer her a home here—I cannot leave her with the Gordons—I have promised not to send her back to England—what _am_ I to do?" and Gascoigne, who had been pacing the room with his hands behind his back, suddenly came to a halt, directly in front of his pastor. "Why cannot you have her to live here?" asked Mr. Eliot, gravely. "Why?" echoed the other man, "good Lord—is not your visit a plain answer to the question? If people are such brutes as to make a scandal out of—" Mr. Eliot extended his hand with a gesture of deprecation. "Oh, then, go on," said Gascoigne impatiently; "tell me what I can do? Say the word." "You can—marry her," was the totally unexpected answer. Gascoigne's reply was equally astonishing; it took the form of a long pause, and then a loud derisive laugh. "I—marry Angel!" he cried at last. "Excuse me, but the idea is too absurd." "I fail to see anything ridiculous about it," rejoined the Padre. "I think it would be a capital match. You are a man in the prime of life, she is a charming girl—is there any just cause or impediment?" "Twenty." "Give me one, then," he asked impatiently. "She is a mere child." "No; she is a grown-up woman." "We—would be a most incongruous couple, a butterfly, and a black working ant." "I cannot see that." "Besides, Angel is not to be disposed of in such a summary fashion; she would laugh at the bare idea." "Is she not well disposed to you?" and Padre Eliot eyed him searchingly. "Oh, yes; as a child she was extremely fond of me." "'_On revient toujours a ses premiers amours_,'" quoted his visitor with significance. "Eliot, you are a clever fellow, and my friend," said Gascoigne, suddenly, "but you are neither going to talk me, or quote me, into matrimony. I have never—that is to say, not for years—thought of marrying." "Then it is time you did," rejoined his visitor, with decision. "It is a great mistake for a man to put off marrying too long; marriage is an honourable estate. It is not good for man to live alone." "Well, I find the estate extremely comfortable. There was peace in Eden till Eve appeared, and I, too, can quote scripture, 'Physician, heal _thyself_.'" "Yes, I thought you knew," and Mr. Eliot's face grew grave; "I've had my romance—she died." Gascoigne did not reply. "I've had my romance—she jilted me," he merely said. "I did not know." "Pardon me, I'm sorry for you; but marriage would change the whole current of my life."