One march out of Chamoli, Philip met the party. He seemed glad to see Angel, not to speak of Sam and John, who had journeyed thus far in charge of the coolies, and howled passionate protests at being carried through such splendid sporting country. And what did they not descry, as they were borne along? Monkeys, great lungoors, who threw stones, and gibbered at the party—what dogs of flesh and blood could endure such indignities! "And how is your lake getting on?" inquired Angel; "nearly full?" "Rising—slowly but surely. I think it will brim over in about three weeks—perhaps less. It depends on the rains. I'm glad you've got away all right, before the next burst, which is bound to be heavy." "I began to despair of coming at all—and oh, I was so sick of Bilat." "How is Lola?" he inquired. "Very well." "She is not sick of Bilat, I gather from your letter?" "No—she is very gay—and in immense request." "When does she join Edgar?" "Possibly not at all. I think she is going to join the little baronet in holy matrimony." "No?" incredulously. "You are not serious?" "At least he is anxious to marry her,—and honoured me with his confidence." "Oh, did he?" ejaculated her listener, and for a whole half-mile Philip never once opened his lips, and Angel's heart was sore, she felt convinced that he was thinking of Lola. No, on the contrary, he was buried in a somewhat abstruse mathematical calculation connected with the rainfall. He seldom thought of Lola—now. "I hope you will be comfortable, Angel," he said at last, "we have run you up a sort of little cabin, well above the water-line; some of the fellows are in tents, and native huts." "Why, how many are there?" she asked. "Only three or four. Evans of the Civil Service; Hichens Jones of the D.W.P.; young Brady of the Engineers, a boy with the richest brogue in India." "How nice—I love a brogue." "Then you will certainly take to Brady. He is a bright lad—though not very polished—and here is the Lake coming into view—look."