"Oh, yes," speaking with all her heart.
"Then if she ever comes across her first love—if they meet now she is free——"
This aspiration was just beyond the limits of Angel's fortitude; she put down her screen very quickly, and exhibited a ghastly face, as she bent over, murmured something to Mrs. Deep Voice, then rose to her feet, with a faint, "Will you kindly?" to her neighbours, as she extricated her chair; but she carried her head with the pride of all the "De Roncevalles," as she walked slowly out of the Chitachar club. Several men, who were smoking in the verandah, followed the girl's graceful figure with approving eyes, as she stepped out into the cool starlight.
"One of the ladies from the camp," remarked one. "She is pretty enough if she did not look so confoundedly seedy."
There was a clear young moon, as well as the bright stars, to light Angel back to the tent. Everyone else had their chokedar in waiting, with his big stick and lantern, as the roads were frequented by Karites—(a deadly form of small snake resembling a bit of a broken branch on which the unwary may tread, and die within the hour). Karites had no respect whatever for the moon—she belonged to them—but they were afraid of big moons held close to them, accompanied by clumping sticks, and slid away nervously when they were approaching.
Angel hurried homewards, totally ignorant of her danger, and as she rushed along, she noticed two figures,—at whom the young moon stared with merciless severity. They were advancing very slowly—yes, halting occasionally to talk—but oh, she had no heart for other people's troubles now. To think of Lola, whom she had detested, giving up Philip—the idea was almost too immense to grasp—and marrying an old man, in order to save her family. Oh, what self-sacrifice, what a common, selfish, every-day creature she was in comparison! Such nobility was beyond her reach, and if Mr. Waldershare had died a year sooner, if she had not rushed out so madly and hampered Philip with herself, he and Lola might have been happy after all. As she stumbled into her tent, and flung herself on her bed, she was once more the old emotional Angel, agonising with the misery of her aching heart. There were three people who were bound to be unhappy—two as long as she lived and stood between them, and she was the younger by many years. What a prospect! Angel was experiencing the hopeless agony of an exceptional soul; the closing of adverse powers round a passionate strength, that would carve its way freely, and as she crushed her face into her pillow she moaned:
"Oh, poor Philip—poor Lola—and poor me!"
"What did she say to you?" asked Pink Gown eagerly, as soon as Angel had trailed away into the verandah. "I never saw such a pair of tragic blue eyes; she was white to the very lips. Do you think she has been taken ill? You know that tope is notoriously feverish."
"You will never guess what she said," stuttered the other lady, who was almost purple in the face, and whose expression and gaspings threatened apoplexy. "She—she—said, 'Excuse me—but I think I ought to tell you—that I am—Mrs. Gascoigne.'"