Angel by B.M. Croker

A TELEGRAPH peon and a mounted orderly are passing through an entrance gate on which we find a board inscribed "Lieutenant-Colonel Gascoigne, R.E." It leads to a large bungalow, one of the highest rented in Marwar, and all its surroundings proclaim in a reserved and well-bred fashion that expense is no object; from the long row of well-filled stables-of which we catch a glimpse-to the smart, white-clothed servant, with silver crests on belt and turban, who runs briskly down the steps and extends a salver for our card. But we are not disposed to make a formal call; we have merely dropped in to see Philip and Angel, who have been man and wife for two years. They are to be found in a great cool room, at opposite ends of a hospitably-sized breakfast-table. Angel sits before the teapot in a listless manner; a portly fox-terrier squarely squatting on his haunches begs from her in vain.

Philip, in undress uniform, is reading a blue official, with a wrinkle between his brows. A pile of open telegrams lie at his right hand, whilst his breakfast cools. One realises at a glance that Philip is absorbed-that Angel is bored.