Angel was completely at her ease; her manner was that of a girl who had had all men under her feet. To Major Gascoigne the world had suddenly become topsy-turvy; this was Angel's house, he was the unexpected interloper, the runaway ward—and her attitude represented gracious welcome.
"Yes; but, Angel," he began, making a vague effort to withstand this momentary vertigo, "although I am glad to see you, I am not pleased to see you—here."
"But why not?" she asked with an air of bewildered injury. "This is my native land—you are my legal guardian. I belong to you, and not to grandmamma. Oh, dear cousin Philip, do be nice. We have not met for six years—think of that—do not look so stern—please be glad to see me. Please," urged this audacious and distracting creature, with the indescribable eyes and smile.
Well, after all, Philip Gascoigne was only a man. He succumbed, he relaxed, he threw dull care and dull disapproval from him—figuratively tumbled them both over the khud.
"You must be starving," he said; "what would you like to have?"
"Tea, please," was the prompt reply; "and I will make it. It will be like old times. I suppose the dear red teapot is no more?"
"Strange to say, it still exists, and is here."
"Then I shall be glad to meet it immediately; and remember, I shall never forgive you for giving the tea-cosy to that Mrs. Gordon. You don't know the pains it cost, the hours, and the tears, I stitched into it—my first piece of fancy work."
No doubt the ayah had already ordered tea, it was so speedily brought into the verandah. Angel made it, and poured it out, chattering all the time, whilst the solemn, black, bearded servant watched her furtively with shocked but admiring eyes. Truly, these white women were handsome, but shameless. A quick order in fluent Hindustani caused him to start; the old familiar tongue had run to meet Angel in Bombay—in three days it was once more her own.
When tea was over and cleared away the young lady placed her elbows on the table, and resting her pretty face between her hands, said: