Gascoigne broke into a short, incredulous laugh. "What! that thin, shabby little child. My dear Lena, she does not know what the word luxury means."
Her mother heaved a profound sigh as she answered, "Remember, I do not say these horrid things. I know that Angel is not heartless; she has strong feelings, she is devoted to me—and she simply worships you."
"Oh, bosh!" he exclaimed, with a gesture of protest.
"But it is true, I assure you, that in Angel's eyes you are something between a Fairy Prince and a Holy Saint, and quite perfect. She actually threw a milk jug at Pinky, because he said you were ugly."
Gascoigne laughed a hearty laugh, displaying his nice white teeth. He could well afford to despise Pinky's opinion, for, although no rival to Beauty Shafto, Gascoigne was a good-looking fellow, and made a conspicuous and agreeable figure in that somewhat squalid verandah, with his trim uniform and well-groomed air. His forehead and jaw were square, his eyes dark, cool, and penetrating; the whole expression indicated keen intelligence and absolute self-control.
Altogether it was an interesting face. A face that had left its impress on most people's memories.
"Threw the milk jug," he repeated; "that was scarcely the retort courteous; but I'm glad to see she made a bad shot," and he glanced at Pinky's round and stolid countenance. "What's all this finery for?" he continued, timidly touching the satin in her lap.
"To make me beautiful," she answered. "Men's garments are so hideous that women have to do double duty. I am going to wear this at the Giffards' cotillion to-morrow night."
"A dance, this weather. What lunacy!"
"It may seem so to you, who never enter a ballroom, but I must do something to keep myself going, and it's cool enough as yet, after eleven o'clock. Half-a-dozen waltzes are a better tonic for me than any amount of quinine."