"Goes to England?" repeated Angel, incredulously.
"He succeeded to his property some time ago, but has kept the matter quiet, and remains out in India for——"
"For your sake," interrupted Angel; "I understand. Well, I hope he will go soon."
Mrs. Gordon shivered involuntarily.
"It is strange—or is it not strange—that your husband has never noticed how friendly Mr. Lindsay is—with you?"
"No, no; he attributes it all entirely to himself. It would be impossible for him to realise that I could attract anyone in that way."
"And he is an old mole, grubbing away at the story of the love of Shireen and Ferhad, and never sees the real story which is enacted before his eyes."
"Oh, Angel, don't say such things, my dear—they hurt—they hurt."
"Yes, the truth is painful," acknowledged Angel. "I am brutal to you—because it hurts me. It is the truth that my husband's heart belongs to another woman. I cannot blame him; once and for ever, it is as it should be—and she is so beautiful, not only her face, but her character is lovely and noble. It is all a little hard on me, yet truth forces me to confess that there is no one to reproach but myself. Oh, what ease and comfort it would give me if I could blame some one. I threw myself upon Philip without thought or reflection, and I have cast myself between him and the woman he loves, and is now free to marry him—only for me—only for me—they would both be happy. I learnt all this at the little Chitachar Club. Listeners certainly hear bad news of themselves."
"My dear Angel, you are much too sensitive—you are morbid," interrupted her friend; "but you know the saying,