Angel was always severely truthful to herself, and she drew painful comparisons between Lola's beauty, her fresh, English complexion (oh, most innocent Angel, it was pain), her attractive manners, and her own white face, her dull wit, her inability to shine, or even to attempt to shine, when Lola was present; and what a fund of friends, experiences, and memories she and Philip had in common, events that had happened when she was in her ayah's arms—yes, and before she was born. In this period, naturally the happiest of Philip's life, she had no share; and as the pair talked, drawn on from subject to subject, undoubtedly they sometimes forgot the third person, who sat half buried in sofa cushions, aloof and silent, telling herself that she, not Lola, was the outsider. She alone stood between Philip and this beautiful woman, with whom he had so much in common—youth, dead and living friends, memories, and first love. Angel had the power of keeping her feelings to herself, but she could not keep her misery entirely out of her face. Philip's anxious inquiries invariably met with a civil rebuff. "You are as grave as a little old owl," he said one day. "I wish I knew what is the matter." "Nothing." "Is there such a thing as nothing?" "Don't ask absurd questions; I suppose I may look pale if I please." "But _I_ don't please." Angel quickly turned the conversation by a question: "Do you know that Mrs. Gordon is really ill?" "No; but I have not seen her about for ages—fever?" "Yes; malarial fever. I believe she caught it in the district. I'm going over to visit her now." "All right; I'll call for you on my way from the club." "Oh, do go for a ride, and take Sam and John." "I'll see them further! Sam has killed two of the young pigeons, and three of the Houdan chickens—quite a bag!" "Yes; I shut him up in a godown for punishment." "Much he cared." "John cared. He sat outside and howled for an hour, and what do you think he did?" "Something with respect to refreshments." "Yes. He brought a bone and pushed it under the door." "I'll bet it was well picked. Now, I am off. Let me know if I can do anything for Mrs. Gordon. You might take her over those new books and picture-papers—and give her my love." "What will Mr. Gordon say?" and Angel gave a rather hysterical laugh. "Why should he say anything? He knows very well that we _all_ love her." Mrs. Gordon had been keeping her room for some time, and received no one but Mrs. Gascoigne. She looked miserably ill, but refused to stay in bed; and as her husband did not believe in making a fuss over women, or in encouraging them to remain on the sick list and upset the house, the invalid was left a good deal alone. Angel found her in her own special sanctum, wearing a soft silk tea-gown, and an expression of utter weariness and lassitude.