"Stop—I wish to speak to you—Angel."
"Yes?" The yes was interrogative—sinking gracefully into an easy-chair.
"I am not a jealous man," he began, abruptly.
"Who said you were?" It was the Angel of Ramghur who retorted.
"I have"—struggling hard for complete self-command—"trusted you absolutely, as if you were my very right hand, and eyes——"
"But you could not believe your eyes this evening, I suppose?" she interrupted carelessly, and she looked up at him, and then at her white satin shoe.
"No, I returned home early to take you for a ride; I heard you had gone off towards the polo, and followed. At the polo, some one said, 'If you are looking for Mrs. Gascoigne, I saw her driving towards the Palace.' I came on, and discovered you there with—Lindsay—alone. I heard him say, 'I leave my heart—my life behind me,' and you answered, 'You will be brave—you will go.' He is going—you are to write to him. What does it all mean?—Angel—for God's sake—tell me the truth?"
"I invariably tell you the truth," she answered calmly; "they say that children and fools always do that—I wonder which I am?"
"But children and fools do not always tell the truth," he objected sharply.
"When did I ever tell you a lie?" she demanded, and her eyes clouded over,—sure prediction of a storm.