This was precisely how she wished it to be understood. To Angel, a sort of guest at her own table, she offered playful apologies, and assurances that "she was the best tea maker in England, and liked to save her dear child trouble."
But there was one lady who regarded the new ménage with the gravest misgivings, and this was Mrs. Gordon, who, before departing to the hills, had confided her fears to Padre Eliot.
"I do not trust Mrs. Waldershare," she said.
"Why not?" he asked, "she is quiet, and handsome, and ladylike."
"She is a clever, crafty woman, not too scrupulous in money matters. I believe"—lowering her voice—"that she gambles! Of course, I have no business to have prejudices and to hear gossip."
"It is not like you, certainly," he said, with his broad smile. "I believe there has been gambling in the station somewhere, recently; one or two boys have been hard hit,—but why suspect a lady?"
"It is more than suspicion. How I wish Colonel Gascoigne had not left Angel with that woman. It is like leaving a lamb to a wolf."
"She shall not devour her—I'll see to that," he said, playfully.
"No, but she will use her as her blind, and her banker."
"Well, I think you may trust Mrs. Gascoigne," he said, "her conduct has always given evidence of extraordinary good sense, and a certain amount of latent force." As Mrs. Gordon had excellent reason to acquiesce in this dictum, she was silent.