"It's one thing that cannot be taken from us—our memories. Do you remember the day the piebald pony ran away with us, and jumped the gate?"
"That is hardly a happy memory."
"No; but the picnics to Tancliffe Abbey, our cooking and dressing up—our—oh"—with a quick little gesture of abandonment—"our everything."
Gascoigne laughed. "We were awfully keen on half-raw potatoes, the cinders of birds, and corking our faces on the smallest provocation. How one's tastes change!"
"Aunt General Gascoigne, and dear Aunt Ven—how lovely she was," continued the guest. Philip shrank like a sensitive plant; he did not wish her to speak of his mother. Lola, with her quick perception, was instantly aware of this, and added in almost the next breath, "And do you remember the nest in the Clock Tower, that I dared you to get?"
Philip rose and said, "I am afraid I must remember events of to-day, and ask you to excuse me—I have to see the General before three. Angel and you can have a talk, and she will drive you home after tea."
"Oh, I cannot stay to-day, I've heaps to do," protested Lola piteously; "but I'll just smoke a cigarette with Mrs. Gascoigne—no, I really must call her Angel—I daresay she smokes?"
"I did," acknowledged Angel, "but I've given it up."
"Why?"
Angel made no reply beyond a laugh; she had given it up to please Philip. At last she said, "Well, I suppose we outgrow our habits."