"There, I see you have your father's spirit!" exclaimed her aunt. "He and I were always such friends, I nearly broke my heart when he died. You will come here, Angel, I know—because you would like to give me pleasure—you will love me for his sake."
"Oh, well—perhaps," acquiesced the girl, to whom her father's name conveyed no impression beyond that derived from a faded photograph of a fair youth in a gorgeous uniform.
"Have I any more aunts or uncles?"
"Two aunts—Lady Harchester and Lady Lorraine. You are not likely to meet them—they seldom come here. You and I are going to be great friends, Angel. You must write to me and I will write to you—and go and see you—often."
"Not much of the Shardlow about the child," remarked Lady Augusta complacently. "Quite a Gascoigne, or rather—I see a great resemblance to myself."
Philip made no reply. He was unable to agree with this opinion, and put his hand to his mouth to hide a smile.
"And now I want to ask your plans. What are your ideas? So far, I must confess, she does you credit."
"She does credit to Miss Morton and herself. I believe I shall keep her at school till she is eighteen," he answered thoughtfully, "and then try and place her with some nice people who will take an interest in her and make her happy. Indeed, I am at the present moment looking out for some such family who will receive her for her holidays; it's rather rough on her to have to spend them at school."
"If you mean that as a hit at me, Philip," said his listener, "I do not mind in the least; my conscience is clear. When her father disgraced himself by that wretched marriage, he and his were dead to me. Still when I saw the child this afternoon, something in her expression gave my heart-strings a tug. I felt agitated—besides the child resembles me—the only grandchild that is like me. It will be rather odd if, after all, Antony's girl turned out to be the prop of my old age. But I am going too fast, am I not?"