Would it be yes?—or would it be no? Philip was astonished at the fluttering of his nerves, the thumping of his heart. As he approached nearer, Angel stood up, and then came slowly to meet him. He looked at her eagerly; there were red roses in her cheeks—and a white one in her dress!
CHAPTER XXIII
ANGEL DECLINES A PENNY FOR HER THOUGHTS
A telegraph peon and a mounted orderly are passing through an entrance gate on which we find a board inscribed "Lieutenant-Colonel Gascoigne, R.E." It leads to a large bungalow, one of the highest rented in Marwar, and all its surroundings proclaim in a reserved and well-bred fashion that expense is no object; from the long row of well-filled stables—of which we catch a glimpse—to the smart, white-clothed servant, with silver crests on belt and turban, who runs briskly down the steps and extends a salver for our card. But we are not disposed to make a formal call; we have merely dropped in to see Philip and Angel, who have been man and wife for two years. They are to be found in a great cool room, at opposite ends of a hospitably-sized breakfast-table. Angel sits before the teapot in a listless manner; a portly fox-terrier squarely squatting on his haunches begs from her in vain.
Philip, in undress uniform, is reading a blue official, with a wrinkle between his brows. A pile of open telegrams lie at his right hand, whilst his breakfast cools. One realises at a glance that Philip is absorbed—that Angel is bored.
"Sit down, John," she said, sternly addressing the dog; "you have had two breakfasts already; you have no shame."
"I say," exclaimed her husband, suddenly folding up his document; "this is a nice business; I have to start for Garhwal at once."
Angel gave a sharp exclamation.
"There has been a tremendous landslip in the mountains, about a hundred and thirty miles north of Nani Tal."
"But if it is over, what can you do?" she protested.