Angel by B.M. Croker

DURING that long official feast, Angel's thoughts were distracted and confused. They were engrossed by a couple lower down the table-of these she could only catch occasional glimpses-conveying a fleeting vision of a handsome dark profile and gold shoulder cords, and a lovely white throat, a dazzling chain, a dazzling face: besides all the heart-sickness occasioned by this picture she had on her left hand Alan Lindsay, sternly determined to endow her with his confidence-she fiercely resolved not to receive it. What a situation for one helpless young woman! No wonder that her appetite was miserable, her remarks vague and erratic, her face white, and her expression fixed-Mrs. Crabbe, who sat opposite, was delighted to hear her partner declare that he had "never seen any one go off so soon as Mrs. Gascoigne."-To know that her husband and his beautiful first love were dining _vis-à-vis_, drinking to one another with their eyes-no-no-Philip was not like that! To know, that beside her sat the avowed lover of her dearest friend, who was only awaiting an opportunity to pour his cause into her ear, was almost too much for the endurance of any girl of two-and-twenty. And Angel's right-hand neighbour afforded her no support; he was as useless as a stuffed figure, being both deaf and shy. However, she summoned her courage, girded herself for the fray, and rose to the occasion. Even as a child she had a wonderful spirit. Time after time she turned the conversation when it approached her friend.

"How heartless you are!" exclaimed Lindsay, when they had arrived at the first _entrée_. "I declare, you have no humanity, no sympathy-you are a stone."