"Do you mean to tell me that you were going to pass me by, Philip Gascoigne?" she demanded in a high, reedy voice. "Don't you know who I am?"
"Why, of course I do, Aunt Augusta," he protested; "but I did not recognise you at the moment—the light was in my eyes. I hope you are well?"
"Yes, I'm always well, thank you. I'm only just back from Aix. When did you return?"
"About two months ago."
"And never called—or left a card. Oh, you young men of the present day!"
"I did call, but the house was in curl-papers," rejoined Philip. "I gave my card to an old woman in the area." (He was not enthusiastic about his aunt by marriage, between whom and his mother lay a great gulf; Lady Augusta looked with scorn on her country sister-in-law, who employed a local dressmaker, and was a frumpish, prudish, handsome creature, devoted to her books, her garden, and her boy.)
Lady Augusta's quick eyes presently travelled to Philip's companion; the painted face behind the white veil grew rigid. At last she said, in a strangely forced voice:
"I need—not ask—who she is. She is—Antony's girl."
As she spoke she fumbled for her long-handled glasses, and held them to her eyes. Her hand and her voice were both shaking as she said, "Come here, child."
Angel gravely advanced in her most approved school manners, and confronted the lady who was so curiously inspecting her, with serious eyes.