"But with Colonel Wilkinson's economies, and Lena Wilkinson's extravagances, there is not much prospect of that," rejoined Mrs. Jones, and the subject dropped.
The landau was succeeded by a smart victoria, in which was seated a stiff-backed lady in a dainty muslin gown. This was Mrs. Dawson, the Judge's wife, who vouchsafed no notice of Angel beyond a glance of stern disapproval. Next came an ekka packed with chattering native women, who laughed and made merry signals to the little figure on the gate, but the child took no notice of their blandishments, her face still retained its expression of rigid expectation. At last she stirred, there was a faint sound of muffled hoofs in the sandy lane which bordered the compound wall, and in another moment two men on horseback came into sight. These were comrades, who chummed together in a dilapidated bungalow at the back of Colonel Wilkinson's abode. The slight dark man, riding a few paces in advance, was Philip Gascoigne, a Royal Engineer, reputed to be the owner of the hardest head and the softest heart in the station. His companion, following on a flea-bitten grey, was Wilfred Shafto, subaltern in a crack regiment of native cavalry, a loose-jointed, long-legged youth, whose curly locks, gay blue eyes, and admirable profile, went far to justify his nickname of "Beauty Shafto." Besides his good looks, Shafto was endowed with an exuberant vitality and a stock of animal spirits, that even the hot weather failed to subdue. Both he and his chum were popular in the cantonment, being keen soldiers, cheery comrades, and, above all, good fellows; but Shafto only was a universal favourite, for he was a ladies' man. Yet, strange to say, it was not Shafto but Gascoigne who reined up in order to speak to the little girl at the gate. He merely gazed, grinned, and jeered, saying, "Hullo, a case of confined to barracks, young 'un!—in disgrace again, eh? I say, there's a five-act tragedy in that face, Phil. Don't be late for rackets," and shaking up his old Arab, he heartlessly cantered away.
"Well, Angel, what's the meaning of this?" inquired Gascoigne, leaning over his pony's neck. "Not in trouble, I hope?"
The child raised her great eyes to his, and slowly shook her head.
"Then what is the matter?" he repeated. "What have you been doing now?"
"I've not been doing anything," she protested in a clear but woeful treble. "Mother and Colonel Wilkinson have gone to Dolly Tollemache's birthday party, and taken all the children—but—I had"—here two crystal tears escaped from her long lashes—"no hat."
"Poor little soul!" exclaimed Gascoigne, "that was bad luck. What happened to your hat?"
"Beany threw it in the tank, and oh—I wanted to go so much." Her voice rose to a pitiful wail as she added, "Dolly is my friend—and there was a bran pie."
"And I am your friend as well as Dolly, am I not?" he urged.
"Oh, yes," and she gazed up at him with swimming eyes. "Of course—you are my cousin Philip—but you don't live with me, and I am so miserable," she faltered. "The servants push me about, and the children pinch me, and Colonel Wilkinson calls me a liar and—a little devil."