"Oh, Phil!" she exclaimed. "Dear old Phil—of course you are horrified to see _me_," and she looked up with lovely laughing eyes into his grave face. "But I really could not stand granny any longer—her gambling, and her friends, and her behaviour were quite too much for me. I just made up my mind at a moment's notice—and came away. When I explain everything, I am as certain of your approval as that I am standing here." "Had you better not sit down?" said her host, dragging forward a verandah chair. "Thank you," sinking into it and looking about her. "How perfectly delicious it is! Well, to go on with my story—I said to myself, why endure this dreadful life—when I can always go to Philip? He is my guardian, not grandmamma—so I sold my diamond ring for ninety pounds, and came straight off. I did not wire or write, in case you might forbid me to start. Now I'm here, of course, you cannot send me back. Now I've come such a long, long way to find you—oh, do look a little bit glad to see me," and she leant forward and laughed. Angel was completely at her ease; her manner was that of a girl who had had all men under her feet. To Major Gascoigne the world had suddenly become topsy-turvy; this was Angel's house, he was the unexpected interloper, the runaway ward—and her attitude represented gracious welcome. "Yes; but, Angel," he began, making a vague effort to withstand this momentary vertigo, "although I am glad to see you, I am not pleased to see you—here." "But why not?" she asked with an air of bewildered injury. "This is my native land—you are my legal guardian. I belong to you, and not to grandmamma. Oh, dear cousin Philip, do be nice. We have not met for six years—think of that—do not look so stern—please be glad to see me. _Please_," urged this audacious and distracting creature, with the indescribable eyes and smile. Well, after all, Philip Gascoigne was only a man. He succumbed, he relaxed, he threw dull care and dull disapproval from him—figuratively tumbled them both over the khud. "You must be starving," he said; "what would you like to have?" "Tea, please," was the prompt reply; "and I will make it. It will be like old times. I suppose the dear red teapot is no more?" "Strange to say, it still exists, and is here." "Then I shall be glad to meet it immediately; and remember, I shall never forgive you for giving the tea-cosy to that Mrs. Gordon. You don't know the pains it cost, the hours, and the tears, I stitched into it—my first piece of fancy work." No doubt the ayah had already ordered tea, it was so speedily brought into the verandah. Angel made it, and poured it out, chattering all the time, whilst the solemn, black, bearded servant watched her furtively with shocked but admiring eyes. Truly, these white women were handsome, but shameless. A quick order in fluent Hindustani caused him to start; the old familiar tongue had run to meet Angel in Bombay—in three days it was once more her own.