"How is Lola?" he inquired.
"Very well."
"She is not sick of Bilat, I gather from your letter?"
"No—she is very gay—and in immense request."
"When does she join Edgar?"
"Possibly not at all. I think she is going to join the little baronet in holy matrimony."
"No?" incredulously. "You are not serious?"
"At least he is anxious to marry her,—and honoured me with his confidence."
"Oh, did he?" ejaculated her listener, and for a whole half-mile Philip never once opened his lips, and Angel's heart was sore, she felt convinced that he was thinking of Lola. No, on the contrary, he was buried in a somewhat abstruse mathematical calculation connected with the rainfall. He seldom thought of Lola—now.
"I hope you will be comfortable, Angel," he said at last, "we have run you up a sort of little cabin, well above the water-line; some of the fellows are in tents, and native huts."