"None, beyond a mere surmise; people hinted at a love affair—and a mischief-maker. Ten years after she reappeared as Mrs. Gascoigne—married someone who did not expect a whole heart-devouring passion. Her son," again that crooked smile, "you see has done the same."
"You mean in marrying me," said Angel quickly.
Lola pulled herself together. Had that glass of Burgundy gone to her head? She must be more wary. This kind of talk was so full of pitfalls.
"Of course," she replied, taking Angel's hand in hers, "you make him far happier than I could have done, and you are just the right age—the early twenties."
"But you look in the twenties yourself. How do you manage it?"
"Oh, I try to get the very most out of life, by keeping in touch with what is pleasing. I never see or hear anything disagreeable—be gay, and you remain young." And Lola released her companion's fingers with a squeeze.
"But if you feel things terribly, and are sorry for people, and animals, and misery?"
"Oh, that is fatal, it means bad nights, and wrinkles, and horrors; I cannot afford to be emotional, I am a poor solitary woman. If you read sad books, and sing sad songs, and mix with sad people, you become sad yourself. Do you know that you look rather sad—it was the first thing that struck me when I saw you."
"Oh, but I'm not," rejoined Angel, and the colour rose to her face; "I'm really supposed to be rather frivolous and——"
"And here is my gharry coming back," interrupted the visitor, "and, alas! I must go. I'll see you at the theatre this evening, won't I? And you are going to see a great deal of me, dear. I hope you won't mind." As she spoke, Mrs. Waldershare embraced the astonished Angel with much empressment, went gracefully down the steps, ascended into her hired conveyance, and was presently rattled away.