From this long digression we must return to Angel, where she was perched on the edge of the old well, thinking hard, as she rested her chin on her hand and watched with abstracted eyes the long line of cattle going towards their village, amid the usual cloud of powdery white dust. Suddenly she sat erect; she saw Mrs. Gordon and Alan Lindsay approaching her. What good friends they were! and yet people declared that there was no such thing as friendship between a man and a woman, that platonics were invariably platonic on one side alone. What would these scoffers say to Elinor Gordon and Alan Lindsay? Of course the fact of Mrs. Gordon having literally dragged Alan Lindsay out of the jaws of death was a strong and solid foundation for their liking—a woman always feels tenderly towards the patient she has nursed from infantile weakness back to strong, manly vigour; and they had so much in common, their minds seemed to reflect one another, they sometimes said the same thing, they liked the same books and authors, they held similar opinions on various interesting questions, and when they differed, it was delightful to hear them argue; it was like two expert swordsmen fighting with foils—and occasionally without them. They would talk and urge and exhort, whilst Mr. Gordon fell asleep after dinner and snored lustily in the tent verandah, or returned to his great Persian poem; and Angel, who took but scanty part in these brilliant debates, being generally put to the sword at once, sat and knitted a sock, full of thoughts of Philip. Angel watched the advancing pair with the critical, far-seeing eyes of her childhood. How lovely Elinor was, with her soft dark eyes, her high-bred air. How happy she looked, almost radiant. They made a distinguished looking couple. They seemed born for one another. What a pity that—that—well, did Alan Lindsay ever think it was a pity? Was it honestly friendship only, on his part? Did she fancy that sometimes his voice and eyes—oh, how hateful! How dared she imagine such vile things? Was it possible that anyone would think of Elinor as aught but a martyr and a saint? Nevertheless Angel felt the waking of a presentiment as the couple arrived face to face with her, and within speaking distance. "How solemn you look—what is the matter, Mrs. Gascoigne?" called out Lindsay, "you might be Patience on a monument, or an angel looking for truth at the bottom of this well." "Am I—so—solemn?" "I should think so," said Mrs. Gordon, laughing. "You look as if you were trying to stare into the future. Pray what did you see—what were you thinking about?—in short, a penny for your thoughts." Angel felt herself colouring warmly; what would that vivacious, handsome couple say, were she to take them at their word, and tell them that she had grave misgivings of their five-years'-old friendship? "No, no," she stammered with an effort at a joke, "my thoughts are not in the market—they are too valuable to be bestowed."