"Well, at least, it saves you exerting yourself. Oh dear," and Angel yawned, "if we could only have games or charades—or even blindman's-buff."
"What a profane suggestion," ejaculated her husband.
"Yes, or see a few new faces; and here we are—and there is Lady Nobb getting out of her carriage. Oh, Philip, she has on such a smart pink silk petticoat—quite a wicked petticoat!"
"Then I shall certainly make it the basis of our conversation," said Gascoigne, as he opened the door and jumped out.
In a few minutes "Colonel and Mrs. Gascoigne" had been received by the aide-de-camp, and ushered into the great durbar room—a lofty, pillared apartment, with palms, rare Persian carpets, rose-shaded lamps, soft inviting lounges, beautiful curios, and many large photographs scattered here and there (the signed gift of passing guests in return for various favours received). In spite of Angel's melancholy forecast it presented a brilliant scene, with brave men in uniform, and beautiful women in their best array.
The new arrivals were formally presented to their Excellencies, with whom they were on a most friendly every-day footing, and then drifted away into the crowd.
"Quite a collection of strangers," said Alan Lindsay, as he attached himself pointedly to Angel. "I must say I think it's hard lines on the Lieutenant-Governor and Lady Eustace to have to invite every Tom, Dick, and Harry who write their names in the book. I suppose you have seen Mrs. Gordon to-day?" he added in a cautious undertone.
"No," very sharply.
"That is unusual, is it not?" he pursued; "she is not well—she was 'Darwaza Bund' when I called. I'm off in ten days' time, I—think."
"Oh, are you?" said Mrs. Gascoigne, in a more cordial tone. "How glad you must be!"