Days went by, and Angel still remained silent, pale, and self-absorbed, her spirits occasionally rising to their normal height, then falling far below zero. One evening, as she was going to bed, and sat brushing her mane of hair with listless hand, the tent flap was abruptly raised, and Mrs. Gordon entered.
"My dear child," she said, "I'm not going to stand this any longer. What is the matter? Even my husband has noticed you—it is something more than a common headache. Now, Angel, surely you will tell me?"
"Yes," she answered with sudden passion, and she tossed her hair back, and looked fixedly at her visitor. "It is not a headache which hurts me—but a terrible heartache."
"What!" in a horrified voice. "Oh, no, Angel—no."
"Yes—sit down there on my bed, and I will tell you all about it—and then——" heaving a quick breath, "you will have to tell me—something."
Mrs. Gordon accepted the invitation in puzzled silence, and Angel pursued.
"You remember the evening we were at Chitachar Club, rummaging among all the fusty old books, and how I stayed behind, and joked about listening to gossip—when you and Mr. Lindsay went out?"
Mrs. Gordon nodded, and coloured faintly.
"I heard more gossip than I expected! After a time a crowd came in, and two ladies sat close beside me, so closely that I could hardly move my elbows. They began to discuss a certain Mrs. Waldershare, a widow"—here Angel stood erect in the middle of the tent, with a mantle of flowing fair hair over her white dressing-gown—"who jilted Philip years ago." Mrs. Gordon sat erect and gave a little gasp. "He was always devoted to her, ever since they were playfellows,—now she is free—but he is married."
"Why, of course he is!" cried Mrs. Gordon, recovering her wits, "what nonsense this is, Angel. Why are you so tragic? you only want a dagger to be Lady Macbeth!"