"BUT you cannot study the Rajah's pictures any longer," continued Colonel Gascoigne, in a rough and dominant tone, and as he spoke he struck a match, and confronted, as he anticipated, Alan Lindsay—Mr. Lindsay, white as a ghost, and evidently shattered by some great mental storm. "Shall we go home?" he suggested politely, as he struck another match, and lighted the way to the head of the stairs, the two picture-seers following him down in somewhat awed silence. At the foot of the steps stood Angel's pony cart, with its lamps alight, and her husband's horse. "Well, good-bye, Mr. Lindsay," she said in a cool, clear voice, as she turned to him in the entrance. "I will write to you sometimes. Philip, Mr. Lindsay is leaving for England." "Good-bye, Gascoigne," he said hoarsely, and he held out his hand, but Colonel Gascoigne affected not to see it. "Oh, good-bye," he said, shortly. "Angel, get in. I will drive you home"; to the syce, "bring on my horse." He whipped up the cob, and they flew down the avenue, leaving Alan Lindsay in the dim, dewy garden, to find his way back to the cantonment on foot and alone. Colonel Gascoigne drove very fast, but he never uttered one word, nor did Angel. She was thinking of the miserable man from whom she had been so unceremoniously parted, and a little of her husband. He was extremely angry; never had she known him to be angry, but Angel was not the least afraid of him. She had done nothing to be ashamed of, and once or twice she had felt a mad, almost uncontrollable desire to scream with laughter. Was Philip really jealous—at last? How funny! Philip's head was seething with new ideas. He saw himself from a novel point of view, racked by many incongruous feelings—the furiously, justly incensed husband. Should he speak now? No, he would wait till after dinner, and then have it out with her. He dashed up under the porch, alighted, handed out his wife with his usual courtesy, who walked up the steps without a word, and by the light of the great verandah lamp he caught a glimpse of her face; it recalled the Angel of Ramghur, when she was in one of her most defiant moods. They had a dinner-party that evening, and Mrs. Gascoigne, dressed with her accustomed taste, was exceptionally animated and gay, and played hostess to perfection. Certainly Angel, as of old, had a hard, fierce, untamed spirit; she met his glances without wincing, and they spoke, when occasion required, with Arctic politeness. Then when the last carriage had rumbled off, and his wife was trailing away to her room, Gascoigne came in from the verandah, and said: "Stop—I wish to speak to you—Angel." "Yes?" The yes was interrogative—sinking gracefully into an easy-chair. "I am not a jealous man," he began, abruptly. "Who said you were?" It was the Angel of Ramghur who retorted. "I have"—struggling hard for complete self-command—"trusted you absolutely, as if you were my very right hand, and eyes——"