Naturally he started, exclaimed, and stared. Then he became conscious that he was looking at the charming picture of a beautiful girl of nineteen, with glorious eyes and a faint but bewitching smile. Shafto, the ever-susceptible, seized the portrait in both hands and examined it exhaustively. It had something to say for itself, too; across one corner was inscribed, in a dashing calligraphy, the name "Lola." He continued to study the face with a puzzled air, then turned and stared at the child interrogatively. Was this one of her mother's friends? To the best of his recollection, he had never seen the face in Mrs. Wilkinson's drawing-room. "Do you think she is pretty?" inquired Angel eagerly, as she met his glance. "Ra—ther," was his emphatic reply. "But who is she?—where the dickens did you unearth her?" "In Philip's room," was the unexpected response. "Oh, you need not look so shocked, Mr. Billy Shafto," she cried audaciously; "I've not stolen it! I was only searching for some paper to draw on—he generally has lots—and I opened his shabby old leather box and found some. Two lovely bits of cardboard, and in the middle—between them—this. Who is she, do you know? Do you think—he is in love with her?" she asked anxiously. "I'll tell you what I do think," said Shafto, suddenly sitting erect, "I think you ought to be well whipped." Angel's pale face became pink to the roots of her hair. "How dare you go and pry among Mr. Gascoigne's papers," he resumed, "you infernal little monkey? You are a horrid, sneaking, sly little imp." "But what have I done?" she protested in a shrill key. "I was only looking for something to draw on—and why shouldn't he have _one_ lady, when you have eleven in your room? Yes, all in frames, and two of Mrs. Giddy on your writing-table." This was carrying the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance! For a moment her companion, who was now at boiling-point, struggled desperately for composure and speech. At last he said with an effort: "You just march back at once and put that photograph where you found it." As he spoke he drew the silver paper carefully over the face, as if he would hide Philip's sweetheart from the elf's prying eyes. Angel snatched it out of his hand with a jerk, and walked away without one word; but she deliberately studied the photograph till she learnt the face by heart. She learnt something more also, for as she replaced it, on its original wrapping she read on the paper in the same bold scrawl, "To Phil—with Lola's love." So that was Philip's secret, thought Shafto; that was Philip's lady-love, who, by all accounts, had chucked him. She had a lovely face, a haunting face; what bad luck for poor old Phil!—and that meddlesome imp had discovered his hidden skeleton, had dragged it forth into daylight, and possibly exhibited it all round the servants' quarters, and finally come to him and asked in her little fluting voice, "_Who is she?_"