"No," interrupting the quotation with angry emphasis, "but selling all my mummy's pretty frocks and hats in the patchery and bazaar! She is taking them round among the soldiers' wives in barracks, now."
Gascoigne made no comment on this pitiful illustration of Colonel Wilkinson's thrift; in his mind's eye, he already beheld various reproductions of Mrs. Wilkinson at band and race meeting.
He diplomatically opened a fresh subject by asking, "How will you like to go to England, Angel?"
"Oh, I shall be glad to get away from hateful Ramghur," she answered, "but dreadfully sorry to leave you. I've no one but you now—have I, Phil?"
"Oh, you'll make heaps of friends when you get home," was his evasive reply.
"Who is to take me to England?" she asked sharply.
"I'm not certain," he replied, "and I've not had time to make inquiries, but perhaps Mrs. Dawson."
"Mrs. Dawson," she echoed with an odd, elfish laugh; "she does not like me—lots of people don't like me, cousin Phil," and she looked at him wistfully—such a frail, friendless little creature, his heart was filled with pity as he answered:
"I like you, Angel—that is something to begin with? Would you care to come over and have tea with us this afternoon at four o'clock?"
"Oh yes, yes!" dancing up and down as she gleefully accepted; "and may I pour it out?"