the capricious beauty who was admired, worshipped, and spoiled. On a certain May morning when the Row was crowded, and the rhododendrons were a blaze of colour, as Philip and Angela sauntered onwards, they found themselves face to face with a party of four—two smart guardsmen, and two brilliant ladies. One of these came to a sudden halt, and gave a little faint exclamation, as she offered her white gloved hand to Captain Gascoigne. "Who would have thought of seeing you?" she drawled. "Are you in England?" "He is in London," burst out the old Angel with an irrepressible flash of Ramghur, for Philip's speech was slow in coming. The other lady tittered, and the two men took the measure of this grave stranger whom "Mrs. Wal" had distinguished with her notice. "I came home a month ago," he said at last. "And who is the child?" she continued, in her leisurely voice. "A little cousin—Angela Gascoigne." "I never knew you had one." "How are they all?" inquired Philip with an effort, "your father and the boys?" "Billy is in Egypt and Edgar in India. Haven't you come across him?" "No; I wish I had, but India is larger than you suppose. Is your father at Earlsmead?" he continued. "No, he lives in Paris by preference. Earlsmead is let, and so modernised and changed—you'd hardly know it—electric light, white paint, Tottenham Court Road furniture. You are horrified, but I don't mind. I shall never see it again—and besides I am modern myself," and she laughed. "Let me introduce you to Colonel Danvers." The men bowed. "Captain Gascoigne is a very old friend of mine," she added gaily, "our acquaintance dates from our high chairs in the nursery." As she talked on, Angela stood by, regarding her with close attention and a steady stare. A stare which absorbed every item of the face before her, the languorous dark eyes, fluffy brown hair, delicate complexion, and flexible red mouth. She also absorbed a general impression of an elegant toilette, with soft lace and rustling silk, and drooping feathers, a long glittering chain, and the perfume of heliotrope. This was Lola, hateful, cruel, heartless woman—Lola of the photograph. "Where are you staying?" she resumed. "Oh, the Rag, I remember, is your club. You'll come and see me, won't you, Phil?" "Thank you," he rejoined somewhat stiffly. "I'll look over my engagement book and drop you a line. We are blocking up the whole place, I see. Good-bye," and she smiled, nodded, and moved on. Angel turned and stared after her. She watched the pale lilac gown and black plumed hat as their wearer made a majestic progress through the crowd, with a nod here, a bow there; at last she stepped into an open carriage, followed by the other lady, and was whirled out of the park. Then the child seemed to awake from a sort of trance, and realised that her attitude was equally rude and remarkable. "What are you doing, Angel?" inquired her cousin; "what are you thinking of?"