Philip was entirely engrossed in his work. He had developed into an official of importance. His life seemed to belong not to himself, much less to her, but to the Imperial Government; telegraph peons, mounted orderlies, and busy messengers crowded round his office, and it was often seven o'clock in the evening when he appeared in her sitting-room, looking utterly weary and fagged. Nevertheless she was bound to confess that he never forgot to ask her how she had spent the day? who had been to see her? whom she had been to see? how she had amused herself? This was her _rôle_; she was to play, whilst he worked. Then when they went out to dinners he scarcely glanced at her dress, and, of course, during the evening she never exchanged a word with him. Little did his partners guess how his wife envied them! Clever men and clever women absorbed all her husband's attention as their right—and she was deserted. Philip never appeared to realise that she looked for anything beyond a pretty home, pretty frocks, horses and dogs, flowers and books, and a running stream of amusement. He was thoughtful of her health and comfort, most particular in the choice of her servants and horses, and then, having loaded her with luxuries, he withdrew into his work, and it never seemed to occur to him that her life lacked anything, least of all his own companionship. Angel was proud, and she kept her sorrow to herself. Only on one occasion her feelings had broken their prison, and she had thrown out a hint to Mrs. Gordon, who promptly said: "Where, oh Princess, is the crumpled roseleaf? What is your desire? What do you lack?" "Love." "My dear Angel!" she ejaculated. "Yes—I've never had enough," she answered. "I feel something always starving and crying in my heart," she answered with a slight sob, and eyes full of tears. "You silly, sentimental goose!" cried Mrs. Gordon. "You mean the sort of stuff one reads about in poetry, that flames and flares up, and goes out like a fire of straw?" "No," rejoined the girl in a tone of repressed passion, "but a love that cannot endure separation—that turns away from everything in the world to you—that thinks of you—dreams of you—cannot live without you—and would die for you." "My goodness, Angel!" exclaimed her friend, aghast; "but," she went on reflectively, "I believe I understand what you mean, though I have never experienced it myself, and"—with a short sigh—"never shall. I am thirty-six years of age, and I shall go to my grave never having seen what you speak of. The love you dream of is rare—it never came into _my_ life." "And what do you accept instead?" asked the girl sharply. "Oh—community of interests—mutual forbearance and respect." "Which means that you forbear—and all the world respects," broke in the old impulsive Angel. "Oh, Elinor," startled at her companion's face, "forgive me." "Certainly, my dear; but of what have you to complain?"