Angel by B.M. Croker

RESIDENCY parties invariably broke up in good time, and it was not more than half-past ten when Colonel Gascoigne handed his wife into her brougham, and set off, according to his custom, to walk home. To-night he had unusual food for thought, as he proceeded at a leisurely pace, smoking a most excellent Residency cheroot. So Lola had risen on the horizon in the character of a fascinating widow, with all the liberty, prestige, and self-possession usual to her class. How wonderful her eyes were! He came to a momentary standstill as he recalled them, and how her voice trembled as she talked of "long ago," and separation, and the cruelty of circumstance, and misapprehension. She revived a phase of his existence that he had almost forgotten; it was a little difficult to realise that he had been madly in love with her once. That was nearly fifteen years ago-how time flew-in the good old days when she could play cricket and rounders, and did not know how to use her eyes. These reflections were abruptly brought to a conclusion by the appearance of a bare-headed lady in silvery opera cloak, who was evidently awaiting him under an acacia tree by the edge of the maidan.

It was Angel, who, acting on a sudden impulse, had stopped the brougham and descended, and sent it home empty. She felt that she must escape from her own company, her own terrible thoughts. She must talk to Philip about Lola without delay. No, she could not wait, even half-an-hour, for she was mentally staggering under the impact of a new sensation-the name of the sensation was jealousy. Her very soul was in a fever. Naturally highly-strung, fervent, and impetuous, Angel's whole being was centred in the longing to know what her husband thought of Lola-what of her-_which_ of them did he love?