"Nothing like taking time by the forelock—a year soon runs round. Here comes the Colonel," as the little squat figure bore down on them.
"I say, you good people," he bawled, "what about refreshments? Does anyone want some iced coffee? Lena, I can recommend the brew of iced milk punch."
His wife waved a negative, and then exclaimed, "Why, I see they are beginning to go; the Gordons and the Rattrays are off."
"What a shame!" protested her host. Yes, two carriages had just driven away—people who are obliged to rise at four o'clock cannot afford to keep late hours, and by half-past ten the scene of recent revelry was utterly deserted. A family of jackals supped right royally on the remains of the cold viands, and an inquisitive alligator gulped down an empty soda-water bottle.
Angel, who was half-asleep, accompanied her mother in the victoria, and Colonel Wilkinson accepted a seat in Mr. Gascoigne's dogcart. He was by no means as stout-hearted as his figure would suggest, but held on convulsively with one hand as they dashed up the bridge, and halted in the middle of a sentence which he did not conclude until they were a quarter of a mile away on the other side.
He had been discoursing of his own health, and then of his wife's health, and imparting his fears to his Jehu.
"Lena was so delicate now, and so subject to fever," he declared. "She has a weak heart, too, and must go to the hills next season; in fact, they all wanted a change."
"Indeed they do," assented Gascoigne, with considerable warmth, "especially Angela. She is too old to be in India."
"Then I wish I saw my way to sending her out of it," rejoined her stepfather, "and the chance of never seeing her again."