"It is such a short time since I saw her; it seems only the other day we all had our fortunes told by a Fakir, and he said, when he looked at Miss Cuffe's hand, 'I see death.' Of course she did not understand—and she was not told—and it was only a fortnight ago." "A mere coincidence," said Gascoigne; "I don't believe in these predictions. Did you have your fortune told too?" "Oh, yes, we all had, including Mrs. Gordon." "And what did he tell you?" Angel looked at him meditatively; she seemed to be making up her mind. At last she said: "He told me that I was married." "That was nothing new or strange." "No; but that my husband had married me at the bidding of—another woman." "That, at least, has the merit of novelty." "And—truth?" she added quickly. "Now, is it likely? I would be far more inclined to marry because a woman told me _not_ to marry you. But I did not want any telling, did I, Angela _mia_?" and he bent over and brushed her cheek with his glove, and John instantly sat up, believing that it was something to eat. "You must cheer up, and come for a good gallop. Remember there is a big dinner at the Residency this evening." "Do you think that a lively prospect?" "No; I dread big dinners of thirty." Here Gascoigne signed to the syces to bring up the horses, swung his wife into her saddle, and in another moment they were crossing the parade ground at a sharp canter, followed by Sam and John _ventre à terre_. * * * * * A big official dinner in India is a solemnity, not a festivity; people are invited, and accept as a matter of duty. They do not anticipate enjoyment; but the women look forward with keen expectation to receiving their rightful precedence, and to exhibiting their newest gowns. Angel, though but twenty-three, was a lady who sat among the chief guests, thanks to her husband's position. As these were many years her senior, she was generally most desperately bored. On the present occasion, she contemplated the prospect with an involuntary sigh, as she swept down the steps in a graceful white gown, and got into the brougham, followed by Gascoigne, in all the usual evening war paint of a Colonel of the Royal Engineers. "What a dull evening we shall have!" she exclaimed, as she held out her glove to be buttoned. "All oldish official people that we have met a hundred times. We do take our pleasures sadly." "Yes, if you call this function a pleasure," said her husband, as he neatly completed his task. "I've a heap of work at home I ought to get through, instead of eating for two mortal hours, and listening to Lady Nobb—she is generally my fate. Her idea of conversation is a monologue on missionaries." "Well, at least, it saves you exerting yourself. Oh dear," and Angel yawned, "if we could only have games or charades—or even blindman's-buff." "What a profane suggestion," ejaculated her husband.