"If you mean that as a hit at me, Philip," said his listener, "I do not mind in the least; my conscience is clear. When her father disgraced himself by that wretched marriage, he and his were _dead_ to me. Still when I saw the child this afternoon, something in her expression gave my heart-strings a tug. I felt agitated—besides the child resembles me—the only grandchild that is like me. It will be rather odd if, after all, Antony's girl turned out to be the prop of my old age. But I am going too fast, am I not?" "Well, I don't quite follow you—yet." "Look here, Philip," she resumed briskly, "I am willing to receive Angela for her holidays"—this was an unexpected concession. "She can come up for a week-end at first; if she pleases me I will give her a home—when she leaves school; but on payment. I may as well have the money as strangers. My jointure is but moderate, and I have great expenses. Angela will require a maid, and to be suitably dressed and taken about and properly introduced, as befits my granddaughter. What do you think of my proposal?" "I think it is an excellent idea, and I agree to it most heartily," he answered; "that is, if you approve of Angela, and she is happy with you." "Oh, she is sure to be happy with me," was the vainglorious reply; "and of course I shall feel the greatest interest in her, and take good care that she makes a brilliant match. She shall marry to please _me_." If Philip knew anything of Angel, there would be two opinions on that subject. "She will be a far more congenial companion than Eva, who, since her silly love affair with a doctor she met at Aix, has been the personification of seven wet blankets." "Why did she not marry him?" inquired the simple bachelor. "Because I put my foot down. A widower with two children—a mere nobody, too. Eva declared that he was the best, most benevolent and brilliant of men, and devoted to her. But that was rubbish; he only wanted her ten thousand pounds." After this visit there were several teas and luncheons in Hill Street, not a few conferences in the drawing-room, and confidences in the conservatory. On one of these occasions—when all the preliminaries had been successfully arranged—Lady Augusta plumed herself like one of her own canaries as she remarked: "It was a lucky day for you, Philip, when you met me in Bond Street. I have relieved you of your 'young girl of the sea,' otherwise I'm sure I don't know what would have been your fate—such an impossible position too—you, quite a young man, guardian to a pretty girl; you would either have had to marry her—or get a chaperon." "Oh, I should never have come to that," he replied with unexpected decision. "Angel will be in England, if not with you, with others; and with six thousand miles of sea and land between us, surely we can dispense with a chaperon." * * * * *