After the cards, music. Angel took up and tuned her gay mandoline, seated herself in a low chair, and began to play and sing. Her voice was not powerful; it was sweet, it was delicious, and had been admirably taught. The fair syren sang several songs to Philip—spell-bound (as well as an enraptured audience of servants, jampannis, and coolies, who were secretly jostling one another in the back verandah, and among them was the ayah, who assumed the airs of a manager who introduces to the public a wonderful "Diva" whom _he_ has discovered). Philip leant back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the singer; she was giving "La Belle Napoli" with extraordinary charm and verve. What a pretty picture she presented, with her gay mandoline, her expressive face, her graceful pose—he would never forget this evening—never. It seemed as if the very goddess of youth and joy had descended on his shabby little home! Suddenly the music ended with a crash, and Angela half rose and cried: "Who—are those women—looking in through the window?" Gascoigne started up as if he had been struck; he followed her glance, and beheld a pair of weird visages glowering through the darkness. The face of Mrs. Flant—a woman with a tongue—and the face of her sister, Miss Ball, both acquaintances from Marwar. These two ladies had been in desperate extremities; they had, in spite of all advice, insisted on descending—roads or no roads—to Marwar for a ball. Their jampannis and coolies had missed the path, night had fallen, the storm had burst, and there they all were benighted in the jungle. Even the hill-men were at a loss, and grunted to one another interrogatively. One man remembered, as if by inspiration, the engineer's bungalow, and to this, after a weary toil and many interruptions, they made their way. There was a light—how welcome to the poor, forlorn ladies struggling far below in outer darkness. At last they reached the long-prayed-for shelter, crawled out of their jampans, and looked in at the window, whilst some of their bearers ran, shouting, to the servants' quarters. The recent and somewhat noisy arrival was, to the inmates, drowned by the roar of the elements. The two ladies gazed in—there was barely room for both their faces in the little window, and this was what they saw. An extravagantly-illuminated room, a crimson-shaded lamp on the table, cards scattered in all directions, comfort to correspond. Major Gascoigne, in evening dress, leaning back in his chair, smoking, listening with obvious rapture to a pretty girl—yes, a smartly-dressed girl—a complete stranger to them, who was evidently supremely at home, and singing to a gaily-decorated mandoline. What a picture of dissipation! Could they believe their eyes? Was this how Major Gascoigne, the eligible but impregnable bachelor, spent the time when he was supposed to be deeply immersed in his work—and his duty?