"So this is what you call working for the Deep Sea Mission?" exclaimed her parent as she rustled across the room. "See—I have brought Philip Gascoigne."
Philip advanced promptly and took her limp hand, and said, "It is ages since we have met, cousin Eva." But she was not listening to him. Her eyes were riveted on the tall child who followed him.
"It is Antony's girl," explained her mother brusquely. "Yes, the likeness is—amazing."
Eva's face worked convulsively. Antony had been her favourite brother; he, the flower of the flock, with his gay blue eyes and light-hearted character; she, the wretched ugly duckling; yet they had been inseparable, and she had cried herself to sleep for many nights after his departure for India, full of spirits, hopes, and courage. Then had come scrapes, debts, his deplorable marriage and his death; and now after all these years—fifteen years—he seemed to have returned to life in the steadfast face of his blue-eyed daughter. For a moment she could not speak for emotion; then she came forward and took both of Angel's hands in hers, and said:
"Oh, my dear, my dear—I am glad to see you—I am your Aunt Eva!"
"Eva is my second name," said Angel softly. Miss Gascoigne's white face coloured vividly.
"And what is your first?"
"Angel." This was another family name.
Tea was brought in by two men-servants with considerable circumstance and pomp, and Angel's little worldly heart beat high when she realised that all these fine things, the silver, the footmen, the pretty pictures and surroundings, belonged to her grandmamma—and her grandmamma belonged to her. Meanwhile Lady Augusta talked incessantly to Philip, questioned him sharply respecting his service and his prospects, wandering away to race-meetings and her book on Goodwood, with here and there a highly-spiced item of news; but all the time she watched her granddaughter narrowly, her manners, her way of eating, sitting, speaking. Fortunately Miss Morton's pupil came forth from that ordeal unscathed. Angel, for her part, glanced uneasily from time to time at this old young lady, with the pretty slim figure, the pretty fresh toilette, the faded eyes and wrinkled hands, the beautiful complexion, and the wealth of sandy hair.
"Eva," said her mother suddenly, "you can take this child away to the conservatory and show her the canaries. I want to have a quiet chat with Philip now; and you may make each other's acquaintance," she added indulgently. Miss Gascoigne rose with alacrity, and led the way to a small greenhouse which jutted out over the back landing, where hung various cages of shrill canaries. But the visitors did not look at these—only at one another.