"Yes, the truth is painful," acknowledged Angel. "I am brutal to you—because it hurts me. It is the truth that my husband's heart belongs to another woman. I cannot blame him; once and for ever, it is as it should be—and she is so beautiful, not only her face, but her character is lovely and noble. It is all a little hard on me, yet truth forces me to confess that there is no one to reproach but myself. Oh, what ease and comfort it would give me if I could blame some one. I threw myself upon Philip without thought or reflection, and I have cast myself between him and the woman he loves, and is now free to marry him—only for me—only for me—they would both be happy. I learnt all this at the little Chitachar Club. Listeners certainly hear bad news of themselves." "My dear Angel, you are much too sensitive—you are morbid," interrupted her friend; "but you know the saying, 'Le temps passe, L'eau coule, Le cœur oublie.' Philip has forgotten his first love years ago." "No, no; Philip never forgets anything, and I should never have heard about Lola, only in the way I did. They loved each other as children. They love one another still. As I lie there on this little bed, do you know that I sometimes pray to die—a quiet, easy death—to sleep, and never wake. It would mean so much happiness to others—and—here she choked down a sob—"I don't think anyone would be very sorry, or miss me much—except the dogs, and you." "Oh, Angel!" exclaimed her companion, "my dear child, you must _not_ talk like this. I cannot imagine where you get hold of such extraordinarily wild ideas. If anything happened to you—it would break Philip's heart; he——" "He," interrupted his wife, "would marry Lola within six months—or less. I hope so—tell him." "Elinor," growled a voice, outside the flap of the tent, "what the devil do you mean by having lights burning at this hour and talking and disturbing people, and keeping Mrs. Gascoigne out of her bed? Go back to your own tent at once—come, don't dawdle," and Elinor, having embraced her guest, swiftly obeyed her lord and master. It was noticed that the delightful cold weather camp, usually so bracing and health-giving, had evidently been of no benefit to the two friends. When they returned to the station, people declared that they had never seen Mrs. Gordon look so fagged—no, not in the cholera year even, when she had nearly worked herself to death; and pretty Mrs. Gascoigne had not only lost her colour, but her spirits. What had they been doing to themselves, or one another? Was it possible that they had quarrelled? CHAPTER XXVII "THE SIN"