"Why should you be sure?" she protested; "sometimes I like the people I ought not to like, and don't like the people I ought to like—and there is no dependence on me." "What a way to talk," he exclaimed. "It will be strange if you and Mrs. Gordon don't hit it off." "Do you think I shall shock her—as I do you?" "I was not aware that I was shocked. She is a good woman, who is not narrow-minded, and her friends are many and various. Lucky is the young man or girl, who, on first coming out, falls into her sphere. There are very few people who have not been the better for Mrs. Gordon's influence." "And yet she cannot influence her own husband," Remarked Angel drily. "He is still a bear." "Unfortunately he is—and a grizzly bear at that," admitted Gascoigne. "He has no interest in life beyond his work, which includes personal ambition, a certain class of Persian love-songs—and perhaps—his liver." "What a mixture!" she ejaculated. "Well, I shall insist on his taking an interest in _me_, and before long, you will hear of his spouting Persian love-songs, as we stroll up and down among roses, and bul-buls." Gascoigne burst into a loud, involuntary laugh, as the incongruous picture tickled his imagination. His laugh rang down through the forest trees, and reached the ladies, who looked at one another with peculiar significance. "Oh, yes," resumed Angel, "I intend to influence ursa Major; through him I shall influence his wife; through her, I shall influence the whole province. I shall be like a pebble thrown into a pool, whose ripples go far;" then in a voice, "When shall you be down, Philip?" "In three weeks or a month, and meanwhile I know, Angel, you will be happy with Mrs. Gordon; she will introduce you to the people—and show you the ropes." "Oh, but I know the ropes," said Angel, kicking a pine cone before her, "I've not forgotten my India. Kind, hospitable, intimate old India, with your mysterious under life, your tragedies, and comedies, and scandals. I love you still," and she paused for a moment to kiss her hand to a distant peep of the far-away blue plains. "Can anything be more exquisite than this view?" she continued. "Look at the ferns and moss growing on the trees, the carpets of wild orchids, the stern purple mountains; I should like to remain in these hills—they seem to draw me to them. I was born in the Himalayas, you know. Well, I suppose I must leave them," and she heaved a sigh. "It is a pity, for I feel as if I could be so _good_ up here." "I trust that you can be good anywhere?" said Gascoigne. "Oh, I don't know," she rejoined. "I am so sensitive to climate. I love the sunshine, it makes me good-natured and generous, but I always feel so wicked in an east wind! As for my sensations in a stuffy, three-berth cabin, with two sea-sick companions—but I spare you. By the way, one of my fellow-sufferers, a Mrs. Farquhar, gave me an urgent invitation to visit her at Umballa."