He wished to despatch a long explanatory wire to Mrs. Gordon, so that Angel might not burst upon her as she had done on him; nor need the child have all the awkwardness of announcing herself, and producing her credentials. He secured tickets, saw to refreshments, baggage, servants, and then came the taking leave of the three ladies. Angel had half expected him to kiss her, but he merely gave her a warm handshake. He was very funny now, so odd, and stiff, and changed, yet just the same dear old Philip. And thus Angel set off in the little tin-pot railway to Marwar, where she was to live under Mrs. Gordon's chaperonage, turn the heads of all the young men, and to meet her fate. As Philip turned his hired pony once more towards the hill, and a thirty-five mile ride, leaving his own steed to follow, his thoughts accompanied a party in the little black train now panting through the Terai.
And as he regained, late at night, his now deserted bungalow, his thoughts dwelt, as he smoked, over the extraordinary incidents of the last twenty-four to thirty hours. What experiences had been compassed into them, like a meat-lozenge of emotions.
As in his mind's eye, her guardian again beheld that charming child flitting about his room; remembered her speaking and sunny eyes, he told himself that his ward had far surpassed his expectations. Surpassed?—his expectations had never ventured upon such an ideal, and he made up his mind that he would be extremely difficult to please, as her guardian, and that it was only some real good fellow who would have his consent to marry Angel. Then he set his memory to work. He deliberately passed all his friends, and his acquaintances, in critical review—no, there was not one of them worthy to dust her shoes!
CHAPTER XX
A DESTROYING ANGEL
Captain Shafto was taking tea with Mrs. Gordon in the great important looking drawing-room, which befitted the wife of a Commissioner, and future Lieutenant-Governor. She was, although five-and-thirty, a strikingly attractive woman, with sweet dark eyes, a sympathetic voice, a graceful carriage, and supreme tact. On the other hand, Billy Shafto's beauty had been somewhat tarnished by several bad "go's" of fever, a series of hot seasons in the plains, and roughing it on an Afghan campaign, but he was still good-looking, popular, and unmarried. As his hostess was about to add sugar to his tea, a telegram was brought to her by a scarlet chuprassi, and presented with a deep salaam.
She picked it carelessly off the salver, and, glancing at it, said, "It is probably from Donald to say he cannot be home till to-morrow—the new assessment is so tedious." But as she read the telegram she gave a little gasp, and said, "From Major Gascoigne. You"—and she looked at it again—"will never guess what it's about."
"Of course I can," replied Shafto with the utmost confidence; "he is going to be married, though I'm blessed if I can guess to whom—everyone tells you first, you are the Queen of Matchmakers, and the universal confidante—yes, poor Phil, gone at last."
"No, you are quite cold—try again," she said.
"Again——" he repeated, and his eyes travelled thoughtfully round the pillared room, with its immense palms, imposing mirrors, and ottomans, an awe-inspiring official room, offering dim suggestions of future receptions.