"Angel!" cried Mrs. Wilkinson, suddenly raising her voice, "do stop that horrible machine, and run away and learn your lessons."
Angel paused in her labours, drew her beautifully marked eyebrows together, and looked curiously at her mother. Then she rose, handed her frill to the dirzee, and obediently withdrew, vanishing through one of the many doors into the interior of the bungalow—but not to learn her lessons. Oh no, she went straight to Mrs. Wilkinson's bedroom, hunted about for a certain library book, and settled herself comfortably on a sofa. There, stretched at full length, with a couple of cushions carefully arranged at her back, she resembled a small edition of her mother! Presently she opened the novel, found her place, and began to read. The name of the novel was "Moths."
In the meanwhile conversation in the verandah was proceeding; as soon as her daughter had disappeared, Mrs. Wilkinson resumed:
"I left Angel at home as a punishment; it's only the punishment she feels."
"She feels a good many things," rejoined Gascoigne. "What has she been up to now?"
"Oh, never mind," retorted the lady, with a touch of irritation. "You think Angel is an angel."
"Excuse me, I do not; but she is only a child—we were children ourselves. Why are you all so rough on her?"
"I'm sure I'm not rough on her," protested Mrs. Wilkinson in a highly injured key, "but she is always rubbing Richard up the wrong way—he is so sensitive, too, and only the other day she called him a 'mud cart officer.' Really, I can't imagine where she picks up her awful expressions."
"She picks up everything, I fancy—chaff and corn," remarked her cousin.
"At any rate, Richard simply detests her," continued Mrs. Wilkinson. "I keep her out of his way as much as possible, as he hates the very sight of her. He says you never know what she is going to do next; she plays the most unexpected tricks, she is heartless, untruthful, and fond of luxury."