"Oh, here you are at last!" said Angel; "it is such an exquisite night, I thought I would walk home," adding apologetically, as she held up her dainty shoe, "the road is as dry as a floor; let us go across the parade-ground." "All right," he assented; "it is too early for snakes. How hot it was in that drawing-room, with those big lamps." "It was," assented his wife, "but _you_ must have found it cooler—in the verandah." There was a significant pause, and then Colonel Gascoigne boldly broke the ice at the thickest part. "There is nothing so certain as the unexpected," he said; "who would have thought of seeing Lola out here?" "Who, indeed?" echoed Angel coolly; "and we were wishing so much for a new face, though her face is not new to you. Everyone comes to India nowadays. It would never surprise me if grandmamma appeared. There she goes." "What! your grandmother?" "No, Mrs. Waldershare." As she spoke a large open carriage bowled along the hard white road. It contained the Blaines and their guest, who waved her fan to the pair, with a gesture signifying approval and valediction. "What do you think of her?" asked Philip, abruptly, as the horses' hoofs died away in a distant clip-clop. "I think she is beautiful," answered Angel, in a voice that carried sincerity in its expression; "there can be but one opinion about that." "I shouldn't have thought she was your style." "Oh, yes, I admire dark people." "Thank you, Angel; that is one to me. But you did not approve of her as a child." "No, I was prejudiced, and, of course, I was no judge; but now that—that——" she hesitated. She was going to add, "that I know her story——" "That you have arrived at years of discretion or indiscretion," he supplemented. "Yes, now that I have arrived at years of experience, I do not wonder that you adored her." Philip did not remark the little falter in her voice. "How do you know that I adored her?" "Did you not?" was her quick counter question. "Well, then—yes." "And were distracted with misery when she married Mr. Waldershare?" "So they said," and as he spoke he knocked the ash off his cheroot with elaborate care. "You have forgiven her"—and Angel caught her breath; "you forgave her to-night?" "I forgave her ten years ago; but, my dear child, do not let us rake up the ashes of an old love affair that has been extinct for ages. I am quite prepared to be civil to Lola, as an old playfellow and friend, that's all. You will have to call on her, and ask her to dinner, and all that sort of thing." Angel came to a sudden dead stop, and stood very straight in her long silvery cloak; her face was white as she gazed at her husband in the moonlight, with her extraordinarily piercing blue eyes.