"Umph," muttered Shafto, as he folded up the telegram, "she will be here at ten to-morrow. Shall I meet her and bring her up? I knew her in pinafores." "Thank you so much, for Donald expects me to be at breakfast. I will send down the carriage and a chuprassi, and have the room all ready." "I wonder what she will be like?" said the man with a meditative air. "A little creature with fluffy hair—rather silent and frightened," suggested the lady; and as Shafto always received whatever Mrs. Gordon said as gospel, he was searching for the counterpart of this description in the morning train. Mrs. Flant and her sister greeted him agreeably, and he explained that he had not come to meet them—but that Mrs. Gordon had sent him to receive a friend. "Perhaps I am the individual," suggested a tall, striking-looking pretty girl; "is her name Gascoigne?" "You don't mean to say that you are Angel?" he exclaimed, grasping her hand; "I never would have known you." "No," rather drily, "but I recognise you. You are Captain Shafto." He coloured with pleasure, till she added, "who always so strongly disapproved of me." "Now, there your excellent memory is at fault," was his mendacious reply, "who could ever have disapproved of _you_?" for he had fallen in love with this smiling vision on the spot. "Let me get your luggage out—I suppose your ayah is somewhere—the carriage is here," and he bustled about, proud and important, and all the way back to the Commissioner's, as they sat opposite to one another in the roomy landau, Shafto the Scorner was feverishly endeavoring to win the smiles and good will of this exquisite and rather disdainful Angel. He was her first victim—and by no means the last. Mrs. Gordon welcomed the traveller warmly, kissed her, took her to her best guest chamber, and sent her in a _recherché_ breakfast. Meanwhile she read the epistle that was, so to speak, Angel's letter of credit. So she had escaped from her grandmother, and all the stimulating froth of modern society, and cast herself into the arms of her guardian. Poor, poor Philip! never a ladies' man—though many women found him most interesting and attractive—what was he to do, with this wild and beautiful ward? * * * * *