"I'm——" and she glanced up at him—his face looked white, or was it the glare?—"thinking, that I hate her." "What on earth do you mean?" he asked sharply. "I mean the lady in the black hat, who spoke to you—who knew you in the nursery——" rejoined Angel in gasps. "I've seen—her before—she is a doll—a wicked doll." "You are mistaken, you have never seen her in your life, and she is neither a doll, nor wicked. You should not say such things," he remonstrated sternly. "But I may think them," she retorted rebelliously. "No, you may not." "What is her name?" she asked, with a kind of sob. "Mrs. Waldershare—I have known her nearly all my life." They walked on for a considerable time in dead silence. "Are you vexed with me, cousin Phil?" faltered Angel at length, and in a faint voice. Her eyes were deep with devotion and darkened with tears. "No, but I wish you would not take sudden dislikes to people, Angel, and sit in judgment at a moment's notice." "I can't help it. I make up my mind, and I like and dislike then and there. There is—love at first sight." "Is there? Well, you can't know anything about _that_." "No, but I can understand hate at first sight," and she drew a long, intense breath. "The sooner you turn that current of thought out of your mind the better for yourself, Angel. You should only look for good in other people. It always pays. Come along now, and let us feed the ducks." With respect to Captain Gascoigne's own sensations, he had been prepared for the encounter ever since he had returned to London, and had steeled himself to meet his former _fiancée_ with true British self-possession. Moreover, he had caught sight of her at a theatre and dining in a smart restaurant, so the first edge of the sharp wind had been tempered. In a short time he and Angel were absorbed in feeding the ducks, oblivious of their recent little scene, and presently they went off to lunch in Piccadilly, and "do" a _matinée_ in the Strand. This was not the only momentous encounter that the couple experienced; within a month a second was impending, which made a still greater impression on them both. CHAPTER XVI GRANDMAMMA THREE weeks later, on a broiling June afternoon, as Angel and her guardian were strolling down the shady side of Bond Street on their way to strawberry ices, they passed a carriage waiting outside a shop, in which was seated a slight, smart lady, with a great white feather boa round her neck, a wonderful toque on her head, and a tiny dog on her arm. She was directly facing them, and as the couple came closer she beckoned to Philip imperiously; he approached at once, and swept off his hat. "Do you mean to tell me that you were going to pass me by, Philip Gascoigne?" she demanded in a high, reedy voice. "Don't you know who I am?" "Why, of course I do, Aunt Augusta," he protested; "but I did not recognise you at the moment—the light was in my eyes. I hope you are well?"