Colonel Wilkinson reflected for some seconds behind the pages of his "Pioneer." He detested Angel; an arrogant, insolent little ape, whose shrill treble broke into and amended his best stories, who never shed a tear, no matter what befell her at his hands, and who laughed in his face when he stormed. He would be rid of her—but he would also be renouncing his authority. Angel was his step-daughter—Gascoigne was only her father's cousin. Her keep was nominal, and the station would talk. No—certainly _no_. "What do I say?" he repeated, emerging with considerable crackling from behind his screen. "I say no, and I call the offer confounded cheek on the part of Gascoigne. What is good enough for my own children is good enough for her. They are not going to budge this season." "But the boys are so much younger, Richard, dear," ventured his wife. "Well, I won't have Gascoigne interfering with a member of my family, cousin or no cousin. Some day he will find out what a little devil she is, for all her angel name and angel face," and with this depressing prophecy Colonel Wilkinson retired once more behind his "Pioneer." Meanwhile the "little devil" was in the seventh heaven, as she and her Jehu bowled along the straight flat road, overtaking and passing every other vehicle—a triumph dear to Angel. "Look here, young 'un, where would you like me to drive you—you shall choose the route," said Gascoigne suddenly. "Right in front of the club, then past the railway station and through the bazaar," was her prompt and unexpected answer. "Good Lord, what a choice! And why?" "Just that people may see me," replied Angel, and she put out her hand and touched his arm, as she added, "See me—driving with _you_." "No great sight; but, all the same, you shall have your way—you don't often get it, do you?" Angel made no reply beyond a queer little laugh, and they sped through the cantonments, meeting the remnant who were left taking their dutiful airing. These did not fail to notice the "Wilkinson's Angel," as she was called, seated aloft beside Captain Gascoigne, pride in her port, her little sharp face irradiated with the serene smile of absolute content. The two Miss Brewers, in their rickety pony carriage, envied the child fully as much as she could have desired. Mrs. Dawson stared, bowed, and looked back; so did some men on their way to rackets. "Well, Gascoigne was a good sort, and it was just the kind of thing he would do—give up his game to take a kid for a spin into the country. Why, he was making straight for the bazaar." The bazaar was narrow and thronged with ekkas, camels, bullock carts, and cattle, as well as crammed with human beings. As Gascoigne steered carefully in and out of the crowd, a bright idea flashed upon him. There was Narwainjees, a large general shop which sold everything from Paris hats to pills and night lights. He pulled up sharply at the entrance and said, "I say, Angel, I want you to come in here and choose yourself a hat."