"She shall not devour her—I'll see to that," he said, playfully. "No, but she will use her as her blind, and her banker." "Well, I think you may trust Mrs. Gascoigne," he said, "her conduct has always given evidence of extraordinary good sense, and a certain amount of latent force." As Mrs. Gordon had excellent reason to acquiesce in this dictum, she was silent. But her instinct had not deceived her, day by day—nay, hour by hour, Angel fell more and more under the elder woman's influence. It was as if she had been hypnotised, she surrendered her will to her, and took up a subordinate position with unquestioning resignation. Although the clever widow was careful not to offend any of the girl's prejudices and susceptibilities, the household was ordered to Mrs. Waldershare's liking,—and the servants hated her almost as bitterly as the dogs. Never put out, never excited, the lady rolled along over all little obstacles, a veritable Juggernaut of self. She instituted late hours—Angel was naturally an early bird. She enjoyed elaborate and dainty meals, Angel preferred very simple fare; she liked long drives in the moonlight, sometimes keeping the horses out till midnight; occasionally she took Mrs. Lacy with her, or Sir Capel, and Angel remained at home. Lola was so clever, so seductive, so persuasive, that everything she said or did had the air of being absolutely faultless—the one and only speech or action possible under the circumstances. She and her hostess sat a good deal together in the darkened drawing-room, for now that the weather was warmer, punkahs were moving, "tatties" were installed. Mrs. Waldershare knitted silk ties and socks with firm white fingers, whilst Angel drew, and sometimes they scarcely exchanged a word in an hour. Lola was not talkative, she never talked simply for the sake of conversation. Her silence impressed Angel far more than speech; she felt that Lola could tell her so much if she would, yes, so much about Philip, and she was sensible of a certain awe, and the strivings and painful contortions of a never-to-be appeased curiosity, and what was worse, a sleepless jealousy. She was humbly conscious that she was far inferior to this calm, beautiful, dignified creature, and as she stole long glances at her companion, she would tell her envious heart that Philip had been engaged to her for four years, twice as long as she had been his wife. He had known Lola for thirty years! How could a man outgrow a love like that? It was rooted in his very childhood. Lola had some dim intuition of what was passing in her companion's thoughts, and smiled, saying to herself, "Silly girl, she is always wondering. How wretched I could make her if I chose!"