"And no one has done anything to you? What is it? You seem rather down on your luck." "Then appearances are deceitful," she answered, dragging away her hand. "I—I"—Angel was unaccustomed to telling broad, flat-footed lies—at last she brought out—"enjoyed myself _enormously_." "Though there were only the three of you! Donald Gordon is an able man, but a murderous bore—the compressed essence of a dozen wet blankets. A little of his society goes far. Oh, but I forgot—you had that fellow Lindsay. How did you like him?" Angel coloured faintly; there was a moment's perceptible hesitation before she said: "I don't dislike him." "Come! this _is_ enthusiastic praise! and yet he is quite a ladies' man; far more at home reading poetry than pig-sticking; in fact, he rides so badly that it makes me positively uncomfortable to see him. He is an humbling spectacle on a horse." "Um—yes; but I don't think clever people generally ride well—as a rule," said Angel. "Then there must be a crowd of clever people in Marwar! By the way, I'm told that Lindsay came into his property about three or four months ago—why on earth does he not clear out? A man with six thousand a year is out of focus in India. What is his anchor out here, I wonder? A woman?" Angel blushed furiously—guiltily. Gascoigne looked at her in mild surprise. "How should I know?" she answered impatiently. "He likes his work, just as you do yourself—he worked very hard indeed." "And when he had a little breathing time—how did he employ himself?" "He played chess, and went for long walks and he read aloud—Rossetti and Browning." "Just what I would expect." "You need not scoff; you read to us yourself—once upon a time." "True, oh, Angel; but then—I was in love." "_Were_ you?" "Certainly I was. Shall I read to you now?" picking up the local paper. "We are a little late this morning; my horse had to be shod." "Yes, do read," assented his wife; "but there is never anything in the paper now, but the plague—and the rupee." "I say, listen to this," he exclaimed, beginning to read. "'Sad Accident at Suchapore.' Why, you must have met her." "I don't in the least know what you mean, and I hope I do not." "It's a Miss Cuffe. 'We regret to record a fatal carriage accident at Suchapore, which resulted in the death of Miss Mabel Cuffe, recently arrived from England. She and a friend were driving in a dogcart, when the horse took fright at an elephant, bolted, and upset the cart. The unfortunate girl was thrown out, and killed on the spot. This painful incident has thrown a gloom over the entire station.'" "I should think so," exclaimed Angel. "How dreadful—and how soon." "Dreadful—certainly," agreed Philip, looking at her interrogatively; "but why soon?"