"I have a great respect for some dogs," replied Angel; "you have no respect for Elinor's wishes. Her mind is fixed, she will never see you again; will you force her to leave Marwar?"
"I wish I could force her to leave it with me."
"There, you waste your time and breath! She has a strong will, she is passionately sorry for herself and you—she is at the same time deeply humiliated to find that she, a married woman, could suffer such anguish. If you have any regard for her, any love for her, I beseech you to leave Marwar. She is ill, she is miserable, she—oh, if you only saw her as I saw her, you would never hesitate,—you cruel man."
By degrees Alan Lindsay, borne down by the force of Angel's arguments, her expostulations, her appeals, gave way. The dusk had suddenly fallen, as it does in India; these two, the pleader and the pleaded with, could hardly distinguish each other's features.
"Do you realise that I leave my heart—my very life—behind me?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, but you will be brave, you gain a victory; you will see it some day as I see it—you will go."
"Angel," said a voice from the dusk. It was her husband who spoke, he was close beside her, and she gave a perceptible start, but instantly recovering, rejoined, with surpassing nonchalance.
"Oh, is it you, Philip? How unexpected. Mr. Lindsay and I—have been looking at the pictures."
"Yes—that is evident to the meanest intelligence," replied Gascoigne, and his voice had a suppressed sound, and Angel for once distinguished a touch of sarcasm, never heard by her before.