"Why not indeed?" he echoed mechanically.
"Because she was so yielding, so timid, so old-fashioned, so afraid of granny, who used the fact of her being her mother—a thing poor Eva could not help—as a reason for making her a slave for life. But I set her free," she announced in a clear, ringing voice. "Yes, Dr. Marsh was at Aix; he married Eva there. I was bridesmaid, witness, everything. They went off to spend the honeymoon in the Tyrol, and I was left to face—grandmamma."
"But you dared not—and bolted—I see."
"No, no," indignantly. "I'm not like that. Grandmamma was furious at first, but I talked her round in two days. Dr. Marsh is a gentleman, cultivated, and presentable. He has a large practice. Granny began to see reason and to calm down. It was partly over an Italian Prince that we came to grief: Granny was so insistent, so shamelessly throwing me at his head, I could not endure it. He got on my nerves—and so did Aix. The dressing four times a day, the baths, the gossip, the gambling. I said to myself, I really must get away from all this, or I shall develop into a woman like granny. Granny can have one of the Lorraine girls to launch into life instead of me—she is not half so stiff-necked or headstrong."
"Are you stiff-necked and headstrong?"
"Oh, yes, so Miss Morton used to say. A friend of mine, Mrs. Friske, heard my groans and lamentations, and said, 'Why don't you go out to your guardian? He is elderly; your home is really with him. India is much better than this.' We talked it all over one night—she is very quick, clever, and impulsive—and I thought it out, and made up my mind to leave granny. I would not have done it so suddenly, but that one evening we had a terrible scene, oh——" and she caught her breath sharply. "I can never forget the things she dared to say of my—mother. We had not spoken of her before. I just packed up all my smart French frocks, sold my ring, Mrs. Friske took my passage from Marseilles, and away we went on board the Arabia. It was all so easy. We had a delightful time—lots of nice people coming out—and Mrs. Friske chaperoned me to Basaule Junction. In spite of the awful state of the hills, I came on straight, the wretched ayah gibbering and screaming behind me, for I particularly wanted to arrive before grandmamma's letter." Angel drew a long breath, and said, "That's all—I've finished. Now it is your turn to speak, cousin Philip. Since I am here, what are you going to do with me?" and she looked up at him with a gaze of amused expectation.
"I shall take you down to Marwar to-morrow," was his prompt reply, "and as soon as the monsoon is over, send you—home."
"No, no, no, Philip," she remonstrated in a piteous key. "I won't go back. I realise now," putting her cigarette into the ash-tray, "that I have been—mad. I'd no idea you were so young." As she spoke she faltered a little, and a sudden wave of colour dyed her cheeks. It was her first and sole token of embarrassment. "You are not the grey-haired fatherly person I expected to see. You were getting grey years ago, and I thought—you'd be different. I've so much imagination—I've an excellent memory. I remembered how good you were to me when I was an odious, friendless child, and I—imagined—that you—would be pleased—to have me."
Her lower lip quivered as she concluded, and her eyes darkened with unshed tears. This was more than Saint Antony could have withstood. Philip Gascoigne was amazed to hear himself saying—or surely a stranger spoke: "Why, Angel, of course I am delighted to see you. Your coming has taken me aback, that is all; and I am a hardened old bachelor, not at all accustomed to young ladies."
"No, nor being turned out of your house into the wet jungle," she supplemented with a watery smile.