"All right," she replied; "I'll go up as far as the Suchar Palace; the dogs love the gardens," and, as she spoke, Angel turned her pony's head, and drove rapidly away; all the time they flew along she never once opened her lips. Once at the palace, she sprang out, gave the reins to her syce, and said to her companion: "Let us go into the gallery; we can talk there undisturbed," and she ran lightly up the stairs. The gallery was lined on two sides with gorgeous portraits of princes in brocade, white muslin, steel armour, or jewels; but the couple never cast a glance at one of them, and Lindsay broke the silence by asking, in a hoarse voice: "Now, what is her message? What does she wish you to say for her?" "I am to say good-bye," replied Angel, looking at him steadfastly. "I won't listen to it." "You have no choice; you must. She implores you to go home at once. What is the use of remaining out here?" "Because, even if I do not see her, I am near her—and that is something." "It is madness. Will you not do as she wishes?" "You know well that I would die for her." "And she asks much less than your life—only to go—to go—to go." "One would suppose you were talking to a dog!" he said angrily. "I have a great respect for some dogs," replied Angel; "you have no respect for Elinor's wishes. Her mind is fixed, she will never see you again; will you force her to leave Marwar?" "I wish I could force her to leave it with me." "There, you waste your time and breath! She has a strong will, she is passionately sorry for herself and you—she is at the same time deeply humiliated to find that she, a married woman, could suffer such anguish. If you have any regard for her, any love for her, I beseech you to leave Marwar. She is ill, she is miserable, she—oh, if you only saw her as I saw her, you would never hesitate,—you cruel man." By degrees Alan Lindsay, borne down by the force of Angel's arguments, her expostulations, her appeals, gave way. The dusk had suddenly fallen, as it does in India; these two, the pleader and the pleaded with, could hardly distinguish each other's features. "Do you realise that I leave my heart—my very life—behind me?" he exclaimed. "Yes, but you will be brave, you gain a victory; you will see it some day as I see it—you will go." "Angel," said a voice from the dusk. It was her husband who spoke, he was close beside her, and she gave a perceptible start, but instantly recovering, rejoined, with surpassing nonchalance. "Oh, is it you, Philip? How unexpected. Mr. Lindsay and I—have been looking at the pictures." "Yes—that is evident to the meanest intelligence," replied Gascoigne, and his voice had a suppressed sound, and Angel for once distinguished a touch of sarcasm, never heard by her before. CHAPTER XXXIII EXPLANATION