The lady's face expressed the blankest amazement.
"You," she repeated—"you. Why, you are only a boy yourself."
"I am six-and-twenty, and seventeen years older than the child—a pretty good start."
"Yes, now; but not much of a start when she grows up—and girls grow up so fast, once they enter their teens."
"At present Angel is in single figures," he rejoined, "and small for her age—I think I shall be able to look after her."
"Well, I must say you are very generous," exclaimed Mrs. Rattray, "and I'm sure you have set poor Lena's mind at rest. I admire you—no, you need not blush—for your Quixotism, but I think you have undertaken a thankless and a dangerous task."
With these words Mrs. Rattray once more raised the purdah and disappeared. In the drawing-room Gascoigne found Angel all alone; her eyes looked dim; they had great purple marks round them, the result of weeping and wakefulness. Her wan little face seemed smaller than ever, but it was calm and tearless.
She stood for a moment gazing intently at her cousin, and nursing her elbows, a favourite attitude. At last she said:
"Cousin Philip, do you think she is going to die?" Her face convulsed as she asked the question, but she went on, "Answer me as if I were grown up."
"I hope not," he replied; "your mother is very ill still, but a shade better than she was yesterday. We will hope for the best. Would you care to come out with me for a little turn?"