"You will stay, won't you?" she urged, little knowing that her visitor had carefully timed her arrival in order to be sure of catching Philip at home; "I'll send away the gharry." "Oh, thank you, I must confess it is a great temptation; but do you think the Blaines will mind?" and she looked at her hostess appealingly. "I can write a line if you like. Philip," turning about as her husband entered, "here is Mrs. Waldershare—she will stay to lunch." Lola gave her former lover her hand, and a long, expressing glance; then as Angel hurried out, she said: "What a charming home you have, Philip." "I am glad you like it," he said cheerfully. "How funny to think of this being your house, Philip, and of you being married and happy." She gazed up at him with soft interrogation as she spoke, then dropped her voice and said, "And I am solitary and homeless and poor—all my life, I've stood aside for others and—given up." One of Lola's chief accomplishments was to tell the most dramatic and delightful lies. "I can't say that you answer your own description," replied Gascoigne, ignoring her touching insinuations. "I never saw anyone that looked more fit." "Ah, appearances are deceitful," rejoined the lady with a sigh; "but how well you are looking—so little changed," another wistful glance. "Won't you come into tiffin," said Angel, appearing suddenly. "I have sent off a note to Mrs. Blaine," and she led the way into the dining-room. "What a delightful bungalow this is," remarked Lola, after she had helped herself carefully to mayonnaise; "so much larger than the Blaines'. Quite double the size." "Yes, I suppose it is," assented Angel, carelessly. "They have only one spare room. Of course they are not old friends, only board ship acquaintances, and it was so good of them to put me up; but I've got to turn out." "You are going on to Edgar?" said her host. "Oh, no, such a bore. The Edgars are moving, and won't be settled for a whole month. She is marching with the regiment to Seetapore, so I am going to take my chance in the Imperial Hotel here." And Lola looked down, and sighed profoundly. "Will it be very bad, do you think?" she asked, suddenly raising her eyes to Angel. "I'm sure I cannot say; I've never stayed in a hotel in India, but a great many globe-trotters put up there in the cold weather." Philip gazed at his wife. Was she unable to recognise a broad hint, or was she intentionally and exceptionally dense? "By the way," continued Angel, "have you not a friend at Chitachar? I heard a lady mention that she had been your bridesmaid." "Oh, yes, my dear, pray don't speak of her—such a dull creature, with a voice like a fog-horn. Philip, you remember Lucy Worsley at the Parsonage?" "Oh, yes, of course I do. She was a good sort, and had a first-rate Airedale terrier."