"Well, Phil—so good of you to come," said the invalid in a weak voice. "I'm a little better to-day, and I want so much to have a talk with you." As she concluded, Mrs. Rattray, who had placed a chair for the visitor, stole out on tip-toe, dropping the purdah softly behind her. "You should not talk, or see anyone, Lena," he protested, still standing, "and I am not going to stay." "Oh, yes, just for a few minutes," she pleaded, laying a burning hand on his wrist, "for I have something most urgent to say to you, and until I say it I cannot rest in peace. It is about Angel; sit down, won't you," pointing to the chair, "and where I can see you." Gascoigne obeyed her in silence. "Philip," she continued, gazing at him with her wonderfully eloquent blue eyes, "I am—going to die." He raised his hand in a quick gesture of protest. "No," she resumed. "Listen—you can speak for the next forty years—I shall be dumb for ever—in a few hours. Philip, I shall die happy—yes, quite happy—if you will promise me one thing." He glanced at her, and bent his head. "Will you—take charge of Angel?" This request was succeeded by a silence only broken by the wheezy creaking of the punkah rope. Philip Gascoigne was not naturally impulsive, a promise from him carried its full weight. The singular difference between Philip and his house-mate was this, that Shafto performed less than he promised, whilst Gascoigne was ever better than his word. He turned away his gaze from those two all-compelling tragic eyes, looked down on the floor, and strove to rally his scattered senses. He must immediately realise what this promise signified. It meant that he should educate Angel, and become her guardian; there was no one else to accept the post, as far as he could see. Tony's relations had cast him off when he married; Lena was a penniless orphan. There remained but Colonel Wilkinson. As he pondered the question, the dying woman seemed to devour him with her eyes. At last he looked up and met them steadily, and said: "Yes, Lena, I will." "I know I am asking an enormous favour," she whispered. "I am imposing on your youth and generosity, but I am desperate, and to whom else can I turn? You are the only Gascoigne I know, and you understand that Richard and Angel could never live together. He detests her; she loathes him. On the other hand—she loves you." Gascoigne was about to speak, but once more she prevented him.