"Thank you, I think I'll remain in this funny old club," she replied, raising her head with a smile. "I want to look at the papers—perhaps I shall steal some of the books, and hear some of the gossip? At any rate, I can find my way back alone." As she spoke, she reached for a weekly illustrated, and the other two, with an unacknowledged sense of relief, walked forth side by side into the beautiful Eastern evening. Angel sat with her elbows planted on the table, absorbed in a story, till she was roused by footsteps and voices, the sound of ponies clattering up to the door, of men shouting for syces: people poured in, as it were, in a body. She felt a little shy, and hid herself as well as she could behind her paper. Those who noticed her casually, merely saw the top of a hat, and a white sleeve, and took for granted that she was one of the strangers from the camp. Billiard balls began to be knocked about, lamps were lit, several ladies came to the table, some took up papers, and all talked. "And so the Evanses have got their orders," said a deep voice beside Angel, addressing her _vis-à-vis_, a handsome, rather haggard woman of thirty, dressed in a pretty pink cotton and a fashionable hat. "I'm very sorry," she responded, "we shall miss them dreadfully—I've bespoke their cook." "Well, he will console you—being the best in the station. I wanted him myself," said Deep Voice; "now I must wait till you go." "But I shall probably carry him off," retorted the other lady with a laugh. "Any news in the papers?" "Not a word," replied Deep Voice, "I read them all this morning," pushing over the _Pioneer_. "There is something about a man I knew when I was a girl—a Colonel Gascoigne—he has got on wonderfully—he can't be forty. We come from the same part of the world." "Oh!" indifferently, reaching for the paper with a jingling of bangles, "was he, by any chance, the Gascoigne who broke his heart for Lola Waldershare?" "Why," ejaculated Deep Voice, leaning forward and speaking with unexpected animation, "of course he was—she was Lola Hargreaves then. We lived within a mile of one another—my father was the rector of Earlsmead. I remember as if it happened last week, how excited we were when Philip and Lola were engaged; she was only about sixteen—they had always been devoted to one another, and made such a pretty pair, as romantic-looking as Paul and Virginia—and as young;" she paused, slightly out of breath. "Do go on," drawled Pink Gown, "I know Virginia—she was not drowned—and she did not marry Paul." "No, though they were engaged for years. Mr. Hargreaves, her father, got into terrible difficulties, and Lola gave up Philip, and married an enormously rich old man—simply to save her family from ruin." "Oh!" exclaimed the other lady—it was a most eloquent, incredulous monosyllable—"and, pray, what became of Paul?"