Chapter III: Angel

MISS GREGSON dropped her knitting on to her knee and surveyed her former pupil critically as she stood leaning against the window. What a picture the girl made! The back of her head was particularly pretty, as little curls lay at the nape of her neck and shone with streaks of gold. She was slim and tall and graceful in all her movements.

"How pretty she is!" sighed her companion. "But how unstable!"

Miss Gregson had been sent for when Mr. Dennison, Sheila's uncle, had died, and knowing, and loving the girl she had hastened to Friars Court to find her former pupil full of tears and regrets that, during her uncle's lifetime she had not thought more of him and of his comfort.

She reproached herself with sobs for having indulged so much in her own pleasures and interests to the exclusion of his; and had been so absorbed in them that she had not noticed how much her uncle was failing in health till a week before he died.

Once aroused, however, she had thrown up all her engagements and had devoted herself to him. She was so depressed and unlike herself for the first week or two after his death, that Miss Gregson had hoped that the sharp lesson she had had was about to change her former pupil's whole view of life and duty, and was gratified when Sheila asked her to stay on with her and act as her chaperon.

During the weeks that followed Miss Gregson had looked in vain for her hopes to be realized. No sooner had the girl entered into her inheritance, for Mr. Dennison had left the whole of his property to her, than she regained her usual high spirits, and began to propound to her harried companion all kinds of wild and impossible schemes. Happily she tired of the thought of them before she had time to carry them out; but many a time her long-suffering chaperon felt her heart sink at some of the proposals. As now she sat gazing at the girl, who stood looking out of the window with a somewhat plaintive expression of face, Miss Gregson was taken aback by her companion suddenly turning round upon her, her eyes full of mischief and raillery.

"No," she said, "I shall never tire of you, you are so delightfully quaint."

"Quaint, my dear?" questioned Miss Gregson, taking up her knitting again.

"Yes, quaint. You would never guess the real reason that prompted me to ask you to stay on with me. It was your homoeopathic box that did it."

Miss Gregson looked up perplexed.

"You were delicious over that," continued Sheila. "Don't you remember one day when I was a child, Farmer Smith's bull ran at us, and after we had scrambled over the gate you made me sit down by the roadside, and taking your little box out of your pocket, insisted on us both taking ignatia to quiet our nerves? How I laughed over that afterwards."

Miss Gregson flushed and gave a forced laugh. She was not pleased, but would not let Sheila know this on any account.

"I do hope you still have that box, with the rows and rows of pilules. I'm sure you'll want it while you live with me. I am quite conscious that I am at times surprising, and that it would never do for a person with really weak nerves to act as my chaperon. Besides, those little pilules give me infinite amusement. Do you still believe in them? I hope you do."

Sheila had left the window and had sunk into an armchair, where she sat studying her companion's face with eyes full of laughter.

Miss Gregson looked up at the girl with a magnanimous smile. She felt vexed with her, but was not going to show it.

"I shall certainly not offer any more of them to you," she said, "as you laugh at them. But yes; I still have faith in them and always shall."

"Oh, how quaint you are! I shall certainly never tire of you, particularly as you still believe in those pilules." Then after a moment's pause the girl continued: "I really don't think I can call you Miss Gregson any longer; it is so formal. What is your Christian name; let me see, is it Maria?"

"Why do you want to know? You are not thinking I hope of calling me by it? I certainly should not approve of that."

"I shouldn't dare!" laughed Sheila. "You surprise me so by putting your foot down suddenly that I feel I really can't take liberties with you. But you have not told me your name. Am I right, is it Maria?"

"Maria? No, it's Angelina."

Sheila was on the point of giving a little shriek of laughter at the information. The name seemed so incongruous, but she stopped herself in time.

"Then I shall call you Miss Angel," she said, "or rather Angel without the Miss. You can't possibly think I am taking a liberty in calling you Angel. No one could. Indeed you ought to be flattered," she added, as her companion made a sound of remonstrance. "Besides you are an angel. You've been one to me anyhow."

"My dear, don't talk nonsense. I greatly prefer my surname."

"But I don't. It tires me to say Miss Gregson every time I want to call your attention. You are Angel from henceforth, and you mustn't mind, for it is really a great compliment."

Miss Gregson knew it was no use to expostulate, so resigned herself to her fate, fervently hoping that her erratic little friend would forget it. But in this she was disappointed.