"She was densely stupid, and always had chilblains, even in summer. She is out here now, and telegraphed me to go and stay with her"—Mrs. Waldershare had made full inquiries respecting Chitachar;—"but I really cannot move again so soon." "What brought you out to India? What put it into your head to come East?" "The instinct of exploration, I think; and I wanted so much to see dear old Edgar again, and"—with a crooked smile—"you. As one grows older, especially when one has no home or ties, one gets restless, and hankers for the friends of one's childhood—don't you think so, Mrs. Gascoigne?" "No, I can't say that I ever hankered after the friends of my childhood, except one," she replied; "I have four half-brothers, whom I never wish to see again." Lola opened her eyes, until they looked a size larger, and gazed at Angel in astonishment, and then broke into a laugh. "I suppose you had a different experience to mine—we had a very good time, had we not, Philip?" she appealed to him in her sweet, persuasive voice. "Yes, we made things fairly lively for ourselves and others." "It's one thing that cannot be taken from us—our memories. Do you remember the day the piebald pony ran away with us, and jumped the gate?" "That is hardly a happy memory." "No; but the picnics to Tancliffe Abbey, our cooking and dressing up—our—oh"—with a quick little gesture of abandonment—"our _everything_." Gascoigne laughed. "We were awfully keen on half-raw potatoes, the cinders of birds, and corking our faces on the smallest provocation. How one's tastes change!" "Aunt General Gascoigne, and dear Aunt Ven—how lovely she was," continued the guest. Philip shrank like a sensitive plant; he did not wish her to speak of his mother. Lola, with her quick perception, was instantly aware of this, and added in almost the next breath, "And do you remember the nest in the Clock Tower, that I dared you to get?" Philip rose and said, "I am afraid I must remember events of to-day, and ask you to excuse me—I have to see the General before three. Angel and you can have a talk, and she will drive you home after tea." "Oh, I cannot stay to-day, I've heaps to do," protested Lola piteously; "but I'll just smoke a cigarette with Mrs. Gascoigne—no, I really must call her Angel—I daresay she smokes?" "I did," acknowledged Angel, "but I've given it up." "Why?" Angel made no reply beyond a laugh; she had given it up to please Philip. At last she said, "Well, I suppose we outgrow our habits." "Do we? I never outgrow mine, and smoking gives us all the pleasures of hope and of memory. Let us sit in two corners of this sofa and talk; I do want to know you." "It is very kind of you to say so," responded Angel quietly. Lola gave a long comprehensive glance round the luxurious room, and blew a cloud of smoke through her nostrils. "You must be very well off," she remarked suddenly.