"Oh, no, Philip is never jealous, you know that—if the worst came to the worst, I'd tell him." Mrs. Gordon sat up and gasped. "Yes, I would, Elinor, and I warn you beforehand. But I hope there is no question of that. I will meet Mr. Lindsay to-morrow, give him your message, and tell him that he must go home, that if he stayed here for years he would not see you, or hear from you again. I shall be firm. There," and she kissed her companion's hand, "I must go." The following afternoon Colonel Gascoigne returned home early, in order to take Angel for a ride; she looked wan and spiritless, like a flower that was drooping. He blamed himself for leaving her in that great empty bungalow; was it fair to her, to give up so much time to work, and leave her alone? And there was something on her mind—what? "Could it be—Alan Lindsay?" he asked himself; and a voice answered, "No; you deserve to be shot for the suspicion. Angel is not that sort." No, retorted the little devil Jealousy; but most young women are "that sort," when thrown for two months into the daily intimate, picturesque society of one of the most well-endowed and irresistible of men. With these voices still clamouring in his mental ears, he arrived at home, and was informed that "the Mem Sahib had gone out in the cart, and taken John Sahib and Sam Sahib towards the polo;" and he turned his horse, and rode off in that direction. Angel was not at the polo, but Mrs. Waldershare was there. She beckoned him gaily to her victoria, in which sat two men, whilst a third worshipped upon the step. "Where are you going to, Philip?" she inquired, with an air of playful authority. "Only for a ride. Have you seen Angel?" "Your good Angel—oh, yes. She drove away just now with such a nice-looking man! They went up the road towards the old palace. You don't mean to say you are going _too_?" and Lola gave a wicked little laugh; but Philip affected not to hear, and cantered off. The palace was now used as a picture-gallery, it contained portraits of many rajahs and nawabs, and stood in a beautiful garden. It lay beyond the bazaars, about two miles from the polo. As Gascoigne rode along, his head was in a whirl, the hot blood was thumping in his heart. What did he mean to do? He could not say. He brought his horse to a walk, and made an effort to control his rage, and endeavoured to analyse his own sensations. What ailed him? Was this jealousy, or merely bad temper? As he came in sight of the gates, he descried the portly figure of John, just crossing the drive in chase of a squirrel. Yes, John had betrayed the whereabouts of his mistress, and there, by the palace entrance, stood her cart, pony, and syce. Meanwhile Angel had seen Alan Lindsay at the polo, and carelessly offered him a seat. As he accepted it with alacrity, she said: "I have a message for you—several messages." "Then don't deliver them here, for God's sake. Drive a bit up the road, where we can talk face to face."