"Yes; Mrs. Rattray will perhaps undertake her outfit for me. There is a good deal to be done—we must wait until after the monsoon has broken; but I think I can promise you that in six weeks you will have seen the last of Angela." "Thank God!" was the fervent rejoinder; "that will suit me down to the ground. I won't be moving until the cold weather, not for several months. I say, you won't forget the document, like a good fellow? Oh, must you go? I say, have a lime and soda? No, by the way, we are out of soda-water. Well, then, good-bye—I've a heap of business to get through—you know your way out? Ta, ta." As the visitor was about to cross the verandah a little figure issued from a side door, and sprang on him and seized his arm in her grasp. "I've been waiting for you for ages, Phil. Why did you stay with him so long?" "I've been telling Colonel Wilkinson that you are to be my charge, Angel," responded her cousin, "and that in a few weeks' time I hope to send you to England." "And how much are you to pay?" she demanded bluntly. "Pay," repeated the young man; "why should I pay anything?" "Because he never gives without something in exchange." Angel had a bad opinion of her fellow-creatures, and a piercing eye for a hidden motive. "What do you think Ayah Anima is doing now by his orders?" "She gave them some broth without any bread, She whipped them——" "No," interrupting the quotation with angry emphasis, "but selling all my mummy's pretty frocks and hats in the patchery and bazaar! She is taking them round among the soldiers' wives in barracks, _now_." Gascoigne made no comment on this pitiful illustration of Colonel Wilkinson's thrift; in his mind's eye, he already beheld various reproductions of Mrs. Wilkinson at band and race meeting. He diplomatically opened a fresh subject by asking, "How will you like to go to England, Angel?" "Oh, I shall be glad to get away from hateful Ramghur," she answered, "but dreadfully sorry to leave you. I've no one but you now—have I, Phil?" "Oh, you'll make heaps of friends when you get home," was his evasive reply. "Who is to take me to England?" she asked sharply. "I'm not certain," he replied, "and I've not had time to make inquiries, but perhaps Mrs. Dawson." "Mrs. Dawson," she echoed with an odd, elfish laugh; "she does not like me—lots of people don't like me, cousin Phil," and she looked at him wistfully—such a frail, friendless little creature, his heart was filled with pity as he answered: "I like you, Angel—that is something to begin with? Would you care to come over and have tea with us this afternoon at four o'clock?" "Oh yes, yes!" dancing up and down as she gleefully accepted; "and may I pour it out?" "You may, if we can raise a small teapot. Now there's the bell; run away to your dinner."