"I doubt if she would find scope for her enchantments in Chitachar," said Mrs. Fitzjohn; "there is not an open carriage, a roulette board, or a rich man, in the station. However, you may send off your telegram, and enjoy her society immediately," and she pointed to a list of arrivals at Bombay. "The sooner I see her, the better I shall be pleased," said Mrs. Danvers, in a voice resembling the trumpeting of an elephant. "I shall send a wire now. I can't think how I overlooked the passenger lists." As she spoke she put down the paper, pushed back her chair, and left the table. At any rate, she had secured that consolation prize, 'the last word.' And if Lola Waldershare did nothing else, if she never set foot in the station, at least she had been the means of occasioning a lasting antagonism between two of the very few ladies, in the Chitachar Club. CHAPTER XXVI IN ANGEL'S TENT SEVERAL guests from the station were added to the camp dinner table, the Commissioner's Khansamah contrived an impressive _mènu_, and a dazzling display of plate and flowers. The wine was incomparable—though the host greatly preferred Scotch whisky—and everything and everyone contributed to a pleasant evening, except Donald Gordon, who, as usual, devoured the meal in silence, and Mrs. Gascoigne, who was depressingly dumb, and most startlingly pale. In answer to enquiries, she pleaded a bad headache, and after the ladies had risen, departed to her tent. The camp moved on the following morning, and as Angel rode past the insignificant little club, she gazed at it with a curious expression on her face. To her, it represented the temple of truth. Well, after all—truth was everything, she said to herself,—nothing else was of the same value, hopes and fears, rights and wrongs, shrivelled to dust, in the presence of truth. Days went by, and Angel still remained silent, pale, and self-absorbed, her spirits occasionally rising to their normal height, then falling far below zero. One evening, as she was going to bed, and sat brushing her mane of hair with listless hand, the tent flap was abruptly raised, and Mrs. Gordon entered. "My dear child," she said, "I'm not going to stand this any longer. What is the matter? Even my husband has noticed you—it is something more than a common headache. Now, Angel, surely you will tell me?" "Yes," she answered with sudden passion, and she tossed her hair back, and looked fixedly at her visitor. "It is not a headache which hurts me—but a terrible heartache." "What!" in a horrified voice. "Oh, no, Angel—no." "Yes—sit down there on my bed, and I will tell you all about it—and then——" heaving a quick breath, "you will have to tell me—something." Mrs. Gordon accepted the invitation in puzzled silence, and Angel pursued. "You remember the evening we were at Chitachar Club, rummaging among all the fusty old books, and how I stayed behind, and joked about listening to gossip—when you and Mr. Lindsay went out?"