"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.