"Then I am going to Norway to fish—and now I must be returning to town."
Captain Gascoigne proved as good as his word. He frequently came down to Wimbledon and took Angela and one of her schoolfellows to matinées, picture-galleries, flower-shows, dog-shows, and concerts, gave them tea and ices, and delivered them at home ere nightfall. Latterly he invited Angel alone, as he became aware that she was excessively jealous of his society, grudged every word he spoke to her friend, and desired to have him all to herself. In spite of her gentle and refined manners, her cultured accent and docility, he was conscious that beneath that disguise, lived the old impetuous, forcible spirit, who loved him with the same fierce love which she had lavished upon her mother. The sight of this flame, when it occasionally burst out, in a word or a glance, seriously alarmed him. He had nothing wherewith to meet it but a cool affection, and a certain vague pride in the pretty, charming child, the delicate rosebud that had developed out of a wild little thorn-bush. What he could not repay in affection, Philip endeavoured to make up in indulgence: as it was, the pair went on the river, and to Hampton Court; he loaded her with gifts, and every one of the other girls envied Angel her guardian. One misfortune they shared in common: neither of them had a home. Angel was compelled to spend her holidays at school, and he, to make his headquarters in rooms at Duke Street. Mrs. Craven-Hargreaves was dead, Mr. Hargreaves lived in Paris, the boys were abroad, Earlsmead was let, and Lola was the only member of the family in England. Mrs. Waldershare was a notable beauty; were not her full-length portraits exhibited in the Academy and the New Gallery? She had fulfilled her husband's hopes, and proved to be a wife to dazzle the multitude, a star of the chandeliers, of garden parties, of race lawns, and stately receptions. Where was the Lola who cooked blackbirds, climbed trees, and ran wild? There was no trace of her in the capricious beauty who was admired, worshipped, and spoiled.
On a certain May morning when the Row was crowded, and the rhododendrons were a blaze of colour, as Philip and Angela sauntered onwards, they found themselves face to face with a party of four—two smart guardsmen, and two brilliant ladies. One of these came to a sudden halt, and gave a little faint exclamation, as she offered her white gloved hand to Captain Gascoigne.
"Who would have thought of seeing you?" she drawled. "Are you in England?"
"He is in London," burst out the old Angel with an irrepressible flash of Ramghur, for Philip's speech was slow in coming. The other lady tittered, and the two men took the measure of this grave stranger whom "Mrs. Wal" had distinguished with her notice.
"I came home a month ago," he said at last.
"And who is the child?" she continued, in her leisurely voice.
"A little cousin—Angela Gascoigne."
"I never knew you had one."