"I'm——" and she glanced up at him—his face looked white, or was it the glare?—"thinking, that I hate her."
"What on earth do you mean?" he asked sharply.
"I mean the lady in the black hat, who spoke to you—who knew you in the nursery——" rejoined Angel in gasps. "I've seen—her before—she is a doll—a wicked doll."
"You are mistaken, you have never seen her in your life, and she is neither a doll, nor wicked. You should not say such things," he remonstrated sternly.
"But I may think them," she retorted rebelliously.
"No, you may not."
"What is her name?" she asked, with a kind of sob.
"Mrs. Waldershare—I have known her nearly all my life."
They walked on for a considerable time in dead silence.
"Are you vexed with me, cousin Phil?" faltered Angel at length, and in a faint voice. Her eyes were deep with devotion and darkened with tears.