"Yes, of course, I will be honest—you are right—it did, and I was simply horrified," admitted Angel gravely. "I had expected a man, a little stout, and bald, and grey—you see, I had no photograph to guide me, and six or seven years are ages at my time of life, more than twenty later on. The moment I saw Philip, I realised the awful mistake I had made, and felt almost inclined to turn and run away back into the wet jungle, but I pulled myself together, and did my best to carry it off with a high hand; there was nothing else to do."
"I know that Mrs. Flant and her sister discovered you tête-à-tête—you, a young girl, and unchaperoned. Then it seems that you attracted Miss Ball's admirer, this was too much for her forbearance; to avenge herself she told a story to the station, she and Mrs. Flant whispered that they did not believe you were only just out—or as simple as you pretended. They said you had possibly—no, I won't go on," as Angel's face grew fixed and ghastly. "The talk had become a clamour by the time Philip appeared; perhaps you may understand the whisperings, the silences, and the curt refusals of our invitations, that puzzled us so much?"
"I understand—all—now."
"Then of course Philip had to be told. At first he absolutely refused to believe his ears, but the lie had had a long start, and was strong and unflinching. He did not wish to marry you——"
"So the other woman said."
"He thought you much too young; he declared you should see the world, and make your choice, and not be put off with a dull old bachelor. He was thinking of you, he was indeed, Angel," trying to reach Angel's hand, but she twisted it away, "he loves you very sincerely, and loyally in his own way. Has he not made you an admirable husband? There is the answer to that silly woman's chatter. Don't you believe, my dear," and she now took Angel's hand firmly in hers, "that he loves you?"
"Yes," rudely snatching her fingers away, "precisely as he did when I was a little girl at school, not with all his soul, and all his strength, as he loved Lola—not"—drawing a long breath, and transfixing her friend with her eyes—"as Alan Lindsay—loves you."
"Angel! What do you mean!" stammered the receiver of this rude shock, and the slumbering fire in her dark eyes kindled to a blaze. "How dare you?"
"Why should I not dare?" demanded the girl fiercely, "this is the place and time for plain speaking—lip to lip and eye to eye. Philip is straight, as they called him—he would never make love to a married woman—not even," and she gave an odd laugh, "to his own wife. He is careful of my health, of the horses I ride, the people I know, he jumps up when I enter a room, he hurries to fetch me a wrap, but he never—never kisses my work, or my book, when I am not looking—nor waits patiently for hours to have a word with me—alone—as a man we know, waits for—you."
"Angel—Mrs. Gascoigne," said her listener, who had suddenly assumed all the dignity of the wife of the Commissioner, "you have taken leave of your senses. You have had—a—a—sunstroke."