"The road was _nil_—in places it had slipped a hundred feet. We just crawled along the precipices inch by inch, clinging on to roots and branches, tooth and nail." "I must say it was very plucky of you to come." "Oh, I did not mind a bit," said Angel carelessly. "And so your home is in Marwar?" "Yes; I'm only up here on duty. There are several people you know in Marwar." "Really?" raising her perfectly pencilled brows. "Mrs. Gordon, for instance." "Yes, to whom you presented my tea-cosy. I shall certainly take it back. Wasn't she a pretty dark-eyed woman, with a horrid old bearish husband?" "What a memory you have!" he exclaimed. "And there is Shafto." "Who always hated me," making room for the bearer to remove the cloth; "you cannot deny that." When the bearer had departed she put her elbows on the table, and, confronting her companion, said: "Cousin Philip, I try to speak the truth to you—and I'll speak it now. I see that in rushing out here to you I've acted on a mad impulse—worse, perhaps, than cutting up Mrs. Dawson's dresses. I don't stop to think; I act; when I shop, I buy what I want, and—think afterwards if I can afford it. I never count the cost." She paused for breath. "I did not leave grandmamma without good-bye. I walked into her room when she was going to bed. I wanted to catch the night _rapide to_ Marseilles, and said: 'I've come to say good-bye—as I'm off.' 'Where to?' she screamed. 'India,' I replied. I won't repeat what she said, but—well, she prophesied evil things. Her prophecy will not come true. I am resolved to be prudent, and obedient. I will do whatever you wish, but oh! cousin Phil," stretching out her pretty hands, "please don't send me home—oh, please don't!" "Very well, then, I won't," he replied, little knowing that he had thus sealed his fate; but, thanks to the sorceress, he was in a condition of mind in which to-day blotted out to-morrow. It was an extraordinary experience. Would he awake and find he had been dreaming? or was he really sitting _tête-à-tête_ in this lonely spot, with the most bewitching girl he had ever seen? As he sat endeavouring to focus his somewhat slow ideas—perhaps he was too reflective to be quite good company—Angela rose and began to walk about the room, critically inspecting the contents. "I always made very free with your belongings, and your house," she said, "and"—with a laugh—"your horse. I see several little things that I remember so well," and she touched them as she spoke. "This old battered blotter and ink-bottle, and the frame with your mother's likeness—how sweet she looks." She took up the faded photograph, gazed at it for a long time, kissed it, and put it down very gently. "I see you have a lot of books—um—um-um—Fortifications—Mathematics—how dry! except 'Soldiers Three' and 'Vanity Fair.' I love 'Vanity Fair,' and, do you know," turning about with the volume in her hand, "I was always a little sorry for Becky."