"I have a piece of news for you, Angel," said Mrs. Gordon. "I was coming round to tell you, when we met. Donald has suddenly made up his mind to go home for six months."
"Oh, Elinor! what you have been longing for the last three years. You want a change—I am so glad—and so sorry."
"It was all thought of in the usual Indian eleventh hour scramble; Donald finds he can get leave, and he is suddenly seized with a desperate desire to see his book in print—the idea has been simmering for a long time, last night it came to a boil. He wired for our passages in the Caledonia for next Friday."
"Next Friday—so soon?"
"Yes; and he has written to Alan Lindsay, telling him to meet us. He thinks he will be so useful to him about publishing the book—and——"
"And?" said Angel, interrogatively.
"To Donald's surprise, I have decided to remain out here, and spend the hot weather at Almora with the Byrnes."
Angel pushed back her Terai hat with her whip hand, and stared fixedly at her friend.
"Mary Byrne is so delicate, and she has those four children to look after—my god-child, the eldest little thing, is a cripple. No, I am not going home."
"I believe you are right," announced Angel, after a pause; "but oh! what a terrible disappointment—think of your people."