"Oh, she's good enough at that!" sneered Colonel Wilkinson, with terrible significance. "Now, Angel, go off to your bed," he added peremptorily; "the ayah has kept some cold rice pudding for you—mind you eat it," and he waved her out of his sight. Then, turning his attention to the child's charioteer, and refusing to notice his wife's anxious signals, he continued, "I say, Gascoigne, if you don't mind, you'll be late for mess!"
It was all very well for Lena to suggest his staying to share pot luck, but Lena was not the housekeeper, or aware that the bill of fare consisted of a little soup and some brain cutlets.
"The bugle went five minutes ago," he concluded. Gascoigne promptly accepted the hint (not that he craved for an invitation—were not Colonel Wilkinson's dinners notorious?) and with a hasty good-bye immediately drove away.
Surely, this must have been one of the happiest days of Angel's existence; her mother was prepared to find her in raptures, when she came to see her in her cot that night. She was therefore astonished to discover the child in tears, sobbing softly under her breath—the cold rice-pudding untouched, and spurned.
"Darling, what is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Wilkinson anxiously. "Are you sick?"
"No," sniffed her daughter in a lachrymose key.
"But you have not eaten your supper," she expostulated; "are you sure you are quite well, dearie?"
"I am—quite—well."
"Then," now stirred to indignation, "do you mean to tell me, that after your delightful drive, and all your beautiful presents, you greedy, insatiable child, you are crying yourself to sleep?"
A heartrending sob was the sole reply to this question.