"But you could not believe your eyes this evening, I suppose?" she interrupted carelessly, and she looked up at him, and then at her white satin shoe. "No, I returned home early to take you for a ride; I heard you had gone off towards the polo, and followed. At the polo, some one said, 'If you are looking for Mrs. Gascoigne, I saw her driving towards the Palace.' I came on, and discovered you there with—Lindsay—alone. I heard him say, 'I leave my heart—my life behind me,' and you answered, 'You will be brave—you will go.' He is going—you are to write to him. What does it all mean?—Angel—for God's sake—tell me the truth?" "I invariably tell you the truth," she answered calmly; "they say that children and fools always do that—I wonder which I am?" "But children and fools do _not_ always tell the truth," he objected sharply. "When did I ever tell you a lie?" she demanded, and her eyes clouded over,—sure prediction of a storm. "Never, I must honestly admit. Do you—and here I ask a plain question—love Lindsay? He is handsome, he is fascinating, and madly in love—all this I am sane enough to see." "You don't see much beyond your own nose in these matters," was Angel's unexpected rejoinder. "At any rate, I won't see my name disgraced," he answered roughly. "It is my name—as much as yours," she retorted haughtily. "What are you driving at?" "Lindsay—is he—no, I can't say it!" "I should hope not. My fancy flies with yours, you see. I am sorry you are so much annoyed." "Annoyed!" he repeated. "Then the expression is inadequate; I conclude—that words fail you. You wish to ask me if Alan Lindsay is my lover? Is that what you desire to express?" He nodded his head. "He was out in camp with me for two months." "He was." "If I tell you a secret will you swear to keep it?" "Your secrets are generally startling, but on the present occasion who runs may read. Lindsay was in camp with you for two months; picturesque surroundings, propinquity, a very pretty married woman—I see it all—he made love to you." "Wrong—guess again." "Why guess—there was no one else." "Pray, what do you call Mrs. Gordon?" "I call her the best woman I have ever known—surely her influence——" Angel raised her slender white hand in protest, and said: "Here is my secret—please keep it. Alan Lindsay is in love—with Mrs. Gordon." "_Angel!_" cried her husband, with a vehemence that brought Sam out of his bed, and caused the ayah to creep to a doorway. "It is perfectly true," she continued calmly. "He is madly, wildly, irretrievably devoted to her." "And she?" with an incredulous jeer. "The same. It dawned upon me when I was in camp; I saw it coming long before it occurred to them—I was always sharp, you know."