"By the way," continued Angel, "have you not a friend at Chitachar? I heard a lady mention that she had been your bridesmaid."
"Oh, yes, my dear, pray don't speak of her—such a dull creature, with a voice like a fog-horn. Philip, you remember Lucy Worsley at the Parsonage?"
"Oh, yes, of course I do. She was a good sort, and had a first-rate Airedale terrier."
"She was densely stupid, and always had chilblains, even in summer. She is out here now, and telegraphed me to go and stay with her"—Mrs. Waldershare had made full inquiries respecting Chitachar;—"but I really cannot move again so soon."
"What brought you out to India? What put it into your head to come East?"
"The instinct of exploration, I think; and I wanted so much to see dear old Edgar again, and"—with a crooked smile—"you. As one grows older, especially when one has no home or ties, one gets restless, and hankers for the friends of one's childhood—don't you think so, Mrs. Gascoigne?"
"No, I can't say that I ever hankered after the friends of my childhood, except one," she replied; "I have four half-brothers, whom I never wish to see again."
Lola opened her eyes, until they looked a size larger, and gazed at Angel in astonishment, and then broke into a laugh.
"I suppose you had a different experience to mine—we had a very good time, had we not, Philip?" she appealed to him in her sweet, persuasive voice.
"Yes, we made things fairly lively for ourselves and others."