Mrs. Flant rapped her knuckles against the window pane; the summons was imperious. Gascoigne jumped to his feet; his face was a shade graver, as he said: "It is some people who have lost their way." "Why, of course, it never rains but it pours," said Angel, putting down the mandoline with a gesture of impatience, as her cousin opened the door and admitted the drenched wayfarers. These entered with cold, suspicious eyes, and brought with them a gust of icy, driving rain, which caused the lamp to flare. "We lost our way," announced Mrs. Flant, from the depth of the prim waterproof, "and were so thankful to see your light, Major Gascoigne. I declare, when it came in sight I said a little prayer." "I'm glad you managed to make me out," was his mendacious reply. "Let me introduce Miss Gascoigne, my cousin," indicating Angel; "she will look after you. Angel, this is Mrs. Flant and her sister, Miss Ball. I leave them in your hands, whilst I see about their coolies and dinner." "How cosy," said Mrs. Flant, "how—ah"—searching for an adjective—"comfortable you are." "Yes, a charming little—hiding-place, an ideal retreat," echoed her sister, with peculiar significance. "Is it not?" assented Angel, hastily gathering up the cards, and putting away the mandoline, whilst the weather-beaten, hungry women devoured her with their eyes. A graceful, willow-like figure, light brown hair, dressed by a maid; a pretty face and such lovely clothes, a French gown, turquoise ornaments, a vague sniff of violets—an up-to-date young lady, with a pair of extremely penetrating dark blue eyes, and a self-possession that was at once colossal and superb. "Do let me help you—I can lend you some dry things," she said, ushering them into her bedroom, already made comfortable. On the dressing-table her silver-backed brushes and mirrors were arranged, her scent-bottles, books, dressing-gown, and slippers, all indicated the bower of a dainty and somewhat extravagant occupant. Angel gave practical assistance. She lent her dressing-gown and tea-jacket—her shoes were, unfortunately, too small—she assisted her visitors to remove their dripping garments, summoned the ayah, gave her voluble directions, and took her departure. The bearer, who was now positively at his wits' end with three ladies to provide for—as well as all their retinue to house—was almost in despair. However, he provided soup, a stew, and anchovy toast. Meanwhile the new arrivals conferred together in hissing whispers. "Well," said Mrs. Flant, "I would not have believed it. I'll never trust a man again." To which announcement her sister replied with a snort: "Yes; and, of all people, Major Gascoigne—a sort of monk, whom all the world believes to be a hardworking recluse, and to only tolerate women when he comes down to Marwar. That he should have—this person—hidden away——" "Well, we must just put a good face on it," said Mrs. Flant philosophically, "and be civil—any port in a storm, you know."