"Though there were only the three of you! Donald Gordon is an able man, but a murderous bore—the compressed essence of a dozen wet blankets. A little of his society goes far. Oh, but I forgot—you had that fellow Lindsay. How did you like him?"
Angel coloured faintly; there was a moment's perceptible hesitation before she said:
"I don't dislike him."
"Come! this is enthusiastic praise! and yet he is quite a ladies' man; far more at home reading poetry than pig-sticking; in fact, he rides so badly that it makes me positively uncomfortable to see him. He is an humbling spectacle on a horse."
"Um—yes; but I don't think clever people generally ride well—as a rule," said Angel.
"Then there must be a crowd of clever people in Marwar! By the way, I'm told that Lindsay came into his property about three or four months ago—why on earth does he not clear out? A man with six thousand a year is out of focus in India. What is his anchor out here, I wonder? A woman?"
Angel blushed furiously—guiltily. Gascoigne looked at her in mild surprise.
"How should I know?" she answered impatiently.
"He likes his work, just as you do yourself—he worked very hard indeed."
"And when he had a little breathing time—how did he employ himself?"