"Only ten years' enjoyment of every imaginable luxury," retorted the other lady; "carriages, diamonds, society, admiration, excitement, the spending of immense sums of money—on herself——" Mrs. Danvers merely gave a dry, incredulous cough, and began to put on her gloves. "I fancy she is rather at a loose end now," resumed Mrs. Hargreaves's sister, speaking in a cool but acrimonious key; "roaming about, most likely, seeking whom she may devour. If she ranges out here, she will probably fasten on the Gascoignes; and I shall be sincerely sorry for that pretty, conscientious girl, who gave us all such a shock just now."
"If she 'ranges out here,' as you so elegantly express it, she will have no occasion to fasten on anyone," rejoined Mrs. Danvers, with temper; "her home will be with me, her girl friend, her bridesmaid. I shall ask her—indeed, I shall wire to her—at once."
"I doubt if she would find scope for her enchantments in Chitachar," said Mrs. Fitzjohn; "there is not an open carriage, a roulette board, or a rich man, in the station. However, you may send off your telegram, and enjoy her society immediately," and she pointed to a list of arrivals at Bombay.
"The sooner I see her, the better I shall be pleased," said Mrs. Danvers, in a voice resembling the trumpeting of an elephant. "I shall send a wire now. I can't think how I overlooked the passenger lists."
As she spoke she put down the paper, pushed back her chair, and left the table.
At any rate, she had secured that consolation prize, 'the last word.' And if Lola Waldershare did nothing else, if she never set foot in the station, at least she had been the means of occasioning a lasting antagonism between two of the very few ladies, in the Chitachar Club.
CHAPTER XXVI
IN ANGEL'S TENT
Several guests from the station were added to the camp dinner table, the Commissioner's Khansamah contrived an impressive mènu, and a dazzling display of plate and flowers. The wine was incomparable—though the host greatly preferred Scotch whisky—and everything and everyone contributed to a pleasant evening, except Donald Gordon, who, as usual, devoured the meal in silence, and Mrs. Gascoigne, who was depressingly dumb, and most startlingly pale. In answer to enquiries, she pleaded a bad headache, and after the ladies had risen, departed to her tent.
The camp moved on the following morning, and as Angel rode past the insignificant little club, she gazed at it with a curious expression on her face. To her, it represented the temple of truth. Well, after all—truth was everything, she said to herself,—nothing else was of the same value, hopes and fears, rights and wrongs, shrivelled to dust, in the presence of truth.