"Oh, did she! Well, as long as she is only the angel next door I don't mind," said Shafto, tossing away the stump of a cigarette; "an angel in the house, I bar. This establishment is already the home of rest for lost dogs"—pointing to the trio—"ill-used ekka ponies, and a lame bullock. Don't, for God's sake, bring in a child." "You need not alarm yourself," said his friend composedly. "I should not know what to do with her. The animals, at least, are grown up." "And so is Angel—as old-fashioned as they make 'em. By the way, I forgot to ask you what she wanted yesterday?" "Nothing," replied Gascoigne, stretching out his arms. "I say—Sally can pull—only to tell me that she was rather down on her luck." "Not much luck to be down on, eh?" sneered his listener. "What with a smart mamma, a saving step-papa, and a squad of greedy little Wilkinsons, she must be a bit out of it, I should say. I wonder her father's people don't do something." "Here you are," cried Gascoigne. "I am her father's cousin." "Well, I won't permit you to interfere, or take her in; by Jove, no," said Shafto, springing to his feet. "Charity does not begin at this home. They say that, for all her fluffy hair and ethereal eyes, she is a cocksy, sly, mischievous little cat." "Poor mite! Can't 'they' let even a child alone? They must be short of subjects." "You allude to the station gossips, and no doubt times are bad—so many of their 'cases' are in the hills. Personally, I don't care for little girls with wistful eyes and a craving for chocolate." "I know you don't," assented the other promptly. "_You_ prefer well-grown young women with seductive black orbs and a craving for sympathy." "Bosh! There's the mess bugle. You take half-an-hour to tub and change; you'll be late for dinner." "Oh, I'll get something when I go over." "Here," said Shafto, motioning to a syce to bring up his pony. Then, turning to his comrade, "You are a rum customer. Harder than nails, yet soft as putty in some ways." "Oh, not as soft as Billy Shafto," he protested with a laugh. "Yes. If a fellow is in a scrape—Gascoigne. Duty to do—Gascoigne. For the sick and afflicted—Gascoigne. Dinnerless to humour a child—Gascoigne." Whilst he spoke he put his foot in the stirrup and mounted, and as he wheeled about he gave a view hulloa, shouted "Vive Gascoigne!" and galloped down the avenue _ventre à terre_. For a moment Gascoigne and the dogs sat staring at the cloud of dust the pony's hoofs had raised behind him, and then the three animals gathered round to have a word or two with their master.