Moreover, he was one of Mr. Gordon's favourite collectors, unmarried, brilliantly clever, first man of his year, an exceedingly welcome figure in society. Nor did the fact that he had golden prospects detract from his popularity. He was a tall, spare, clean-shaven man, with a slight stoop, a square forehead and jaw, wavy chestnut hair, deep china blue eyes, and a well-cut, eloquent mouth; indeed, it was almost as eloquent as his clever blue eyes. He could talk well, think closely, act wisely; but he was neither an athlete nor a sportsman; every snipe in its jeel, or tiger in the Terai, might rest in peace without fear of Alan Lindsay. His tastes were social and academic, and found other outlets than a spinning fishing-reel, or central-fire cartridges. One day, by a strange chance—in the whirligig of time—Angel found herself back in the same neighbourhood where she had accepted her guardian as her husband. She walked down to the old well and the tamarind trees one afternoon quite alone. Angel had come there on purpose to meditate and review the past, and found the locality absolutely unchanged. There were the same tufts of grass, the same cracked stones, the same red sunset—possibly the very same black ants. One might have quitted the scene but yesterday. She, too, was but little altered; only for the wedding ring on her finger it might almost be the very self-same Angel who had pledged her troth at this spot two years previously. She sat with her chin on her hand, her eyes fixed on the stretching plains, her thoughts very far away, as anyone could see, contemplating with an inward gaze the last two years. She recalled the whirl, the excitement, the importance of being a bride, a married girl with a fine house of her own, lovely presents, lovely frocks, tribes of friends, servants, carriages, horses—and a husband. A domestic sovereign, her wishes were law. She was indulged and cherished in every possible way, but at the back of her mind there was a want; Philip, her first friend, did not love her as she loved him—she had bestowed her love with a fatal prodigality, whilst he merely cared for her as a pretty child, whom it was his pleasure to protect and indulge. Undoubtedly in his eyes—no matter what he said to the contrary—he still seemed to see her as a girl in a pigtail, instead of a woman who was clothed in the dignity of marriage. Nor had he attempted to bridge the gap of years—he was generally so serious—would it not have been wiser to have returned to grandmamma, who took nothing seriously but the pleasures of life! and—perhaps she would have married the young baron who had adored her. Surely it was better to be the one who was booted and spurred, than the one who was saddled and bridled.