Angel paused in her labours, drew her beautifully marked eyebrows together, and looked curiously at her mother. Then she rose, handed her frill to the dirzee, and obediently withdrew, vanishing through one of the many doors into the interior of the bungalow—but not to learn her lessons. Oh no, she went straight to Mrs. Wilkinson's bedroom, hunted about for a certain library book, and settled herself comfortably on a sofa. There, stretched at full length, with a couple of cushions carefully arranged at her back, she resembled a small edition of her mother! Presently she opened the novel, found her place, and began to read. The name of the novel was "Moths." In the meanwhile conversation in the verandah was proceeding; as soon as her daughter had disappeared, Mrs. Wilkinson resumed: "I left Angel at home as a punishment; it's only the punishment she feels." "She feels a good many things," rejoined Gascoigne. "What has she been up to now?" "Oh, never mind," retorted the lady, with a touch of irritation. "You think Angel _is_ an angel." "Excuse me, I do not; but she is only a child—we were children ourselves. Why are you all so rough on her?" "I'm sure I'm not rough on her," protested Mrs. Wilkinson in a highly injured key, "but she is always rubbing Richard up the wrong way—he is so sensitive, too, and only the other day she called him a 'mud cart officer.' Really, I can't imagine where she picks up her awful expressions." "She picks up everything, I fancy—chaff and corn," remarked her cousin. "At any rate, Richard simply detests her," continued Mrs. Wilkinson. "I keep her out of his way as much as possible, as he hates the very sight of her. He says you never know what she is going to do next; she plays the most unexpected tricks, she is heartless, untruthful, and fond of luxury." Gascoigne broke into a short, incredulous laugh. "What! that thin, shabby little child. My dear Lena, she does not know what the word luxury means." Her mother heaved a profound sigh as she answered, "Remember, I do not say these horrid things. I know that Angel is not heartless; she has strong feelings, she is devoted to me—and she simply worships _you_." "Oh, bosh!" he exclaimed, with a gesture of protest. "But it is true, I assure you, that in Angel's eyes you are something between a Fairy Prince and a Holy Saint, and quite perfect. She actually threw a milk jug at Pinky, because he said you were ugly." Gascoigne laughed a hearty laugh, displaying his nice white teeth. He could well afford to despise Pinky's opinion, for, although no rival to Beauty Shafto, Gascoigne was a good-looking fellow, and made a conspicuous and agreeable figure in that somewhat squalid verandah, with his trim uniform and well-groomed air. His forehead and jaw were square, his eyes dark, cool, and penetrating; the whole expression indicated keen intelligence and absolute self-control.