"And so is Angel—as old-fashioned as they make 'em. By the way, I forgot to ask you what she wanted yesterday?"
"Nothing," replied Gascoigne, stretching out his arms. "I say—Sally can pull—only to tell me that she was rather down on her luck."
"Not much luck to be down on, eh?" sneered his listener. "What with a smart mamma, a saving step-papa, and a squad of greedy little Wilkinsons, she must be a bit out of it, I should say. I wonder her father's people don't do something."
"Here you are," cried Gascoigne. "I am her father's cousin."
"Well, I won't permit you to interfere, or take her in; by Jove, no," said Shafto, springing to his feet. "Charity does not begin at this home. They say that, for all her fluffy hair and ethereal eyes, she is a cocksy, sly, mischievous little cat."
"Poor mite! Can't 'they' let even a child alone? They must be short of subjects."
"You allude to the station gossips, and no doubt times are bad—so many of their 'cases' are in the hills. Personally, I don't care for little girls with wistful eyes and a craving for chocolate."
"I know you don't," assented the other promptly. "You prefer well-grown young women with seductive black orbs and a craving for sympathy."
"Bosh! There's the mess bugle. You take half-an-hour to tub and change; you'll be late for dinner."
"Oh, I'll get something when I go over."