Mrs. Gordon nodded, and coloured faintly. "I heard more gossip than I expected! After a time a crowd came in, and two ladies sat close beside me, so closely that I could hardly move my elbows. They began to discuss a certain Mrs. Waldershare, a widow"—here Angel stood erect in the middle of the tent, with a mantle of flowing fair hair over her white dressing-gown—"who jilted Philip years ago." Mrs. Gordon sat erect and gave a little gasp. "He was always devoted to her, ever since they were playfellows,—now she is free—but he is married." "Why, of course he is!" cried Mrs. Gordon, recovering her wits, "what nonsense this is, Angel. Why are you so tragic? you only want a dagger to be Lady Macbeth!" "Please let me go on—the lady said 'Yes, he is married to a mere chit, a child, his ward, who ran away to him from school—he had to marry her, though he moved heaven and earth to get out of it.' Now"—and here Angel took a deep breath, and turned a pair of agonised eyes on her companion—"tell me—dear—good friend—is this the truth, that the station opinion was so strong, that Philip was—forced—to marry—me? Yes, yes, you have grown red—my God!—it is true." And Angel threw her brush to the end of the tent, and suddenly sank on the ground, and buried her head in her hands. Mrs. Gordon instantly bent over, and put her arms tenderly round the girl, whose form now shook with hard, dry sobs. "And, oh! I loved him so," she moaned, "and he married me from pity—you remember what the fortune-teller said—that a man had married me at the bidding of a woman—that woman was _you_—" she cried suddenly, raising her head, and wrenching herself free. "Oh, how could you degrade me like that? How could you—be so wicked?" "Now listen to me, Angel," urged her friend soothingly. "Do hear what I have to say." "No, no, no," she sobbed, "you will try to excuse it—you will tell me lies." "I will not, Angel—upon my honour." Angel flung back her hair, and stood up expectant, whilst Mrs. Gordon resumed her place on the camp cot. "When—when—" she began, and her lips felt hard and dry, "you came out so suddenly, you were guilty of a most unpardonable act—it was very wrong." "It was very wrong to vilify my mother," interrupted the girl passionately. "Perhaps so, but you know you undertook the trip, half as a joke, thanks to your giddy young friend; you never realised the years that had drawn you and Philip closer together, that he was comparatively young, and unmarried, that you were a grown-up woman. If you had—you would not have come—confess, that this fact struck you the instant you met him? Come, now, Angel, be honest."