"Oh, come, come, you need not play the ostrich with me," and with a laugh and a flip at her ponies, the lady rattled rapidly away, and subsequently bragged of her encounter. Angel's guardian frequently visited to the Commissioner's bungalow. He came to dine, to early tea, to ride, to accompany Angel and Mrs. Gordon to church or the band. Angel was radiantly happy, and, thanks to her friend's precautions, totally unconscious of the net which was closing round herself and Philip. Mrs. Gordon was merely an interested looker-on, she saw both sides of the drama, she was both before and behind the scenes. On one side there was Major Gascoigne, restrained, reserved, reluctant, and yet who could resist the charm of the daily companionship of the delightful girl who was his ward? There was Angel, whose whole mind seemed to be centred in the wish to please Philip—and to wonder what he thought of her? Public opinion was favourable to the marriage—public opinion was strong. Those who envied Major Gascoigne his careless bachelor life, those who resented his lack of reciprocity, those mothers whom he had disappointed, all desired to hurry him to the altar. He could resist, but he had decided not to resist, for, after all, Angel was the most beautiful and charming girl he knew. She was unspoiled, he believed that she cared for him, and that he could make her happy. Under these reassuring reflections, he decided to accept his fate—Angel. It was not a hard fate, a fate much envied of many, and particularly—of all people—by Shafto. It was true that he had spoken of marriage as a mere "episode" in a man's life—he trusted the opinion would never reach Angel's ears. He was not madly, wildly, in love, no—but he thought he would be lucky if she became his wife. He would prefer to remain unmarried for the next ten years, and carve out his career unweighted with an encumbrance. Truly, these were very cold-blooded ideas to be harboured by the lover of a bewitching beauty of nineteen. On the other hand, when he became grey, and stiff in the joints, and the meridian of life and its glories had waned, he would be nothing but a lonely, leather-faced veteran, with not a soul belonging to him, and with no one to whom he could leave his money, except Angel's children. Again the charm of his independent life rose into his vision, his happy, quiet hours, his beloved book, his absorbing interest for his work. Must this all be relinquished? Was it true, as a comrade had declared, that his heart was composed of an entrenchment tool? Swayed this way, and that, Philip was ashamed of his vacillation. For once he found himself in strange conflict with his own character. The faculty of promptly making up his mind—what had become of it? Fresh from the charm of Angel's voice and manner, he determined to speak the very next day.