Angel felt herself colouring warmly; what would that vivacious, handsome couple say, were she to take them at their word, and tell them that she had grave misgivings of their five-years'-old friendship?
"No, no," she stammered with an effort at a joke, "my thoughts are not in the market—they are too valuable to be bestowed."
"I can guess where they were, my young Penelope—up in the Garhwal," said her friend. "And now to return good for evil, I beg to inform you that we were talking about you."
"What have you been saying?" she asked. "If it is bad, you won't tell me, of course?"
"We were calling the roll of our acquaintance, and have come to the conclusion that you are the most to be envied person we know in all the wide world."
"I?" with a short little laugh; "you are not in earnest?"
"Certainly we are," replied Mr. Lindsay; "and you say that with such an ungrateful air. You cannot deny that you have youth, health, sufficient wealth—the beauty I leave you to fill in yourself—many friends—and a devoted husband."
"Oh, yes, you mean a husband devoted to his profession," she answered with a smile. Was Mrs. Gascoigne in jest or earnest now? and Lindsay looked at her narrowly.
"We did not come out like the native women to spend our time holding forth by the well," put in Mrs. Gordon impatiently. "Angel, the word is—march. You must take a good stiff walk. Let us go over to the village," pointing to a far distant clump of trees, "and call on the weaver's wife."