Bridget looked peculiarly fresh and fragrant this evening in the light morning frock, which she had not troubled to change for her solitary dinner. It was almost impossible that any man of Mark's age should not feel flattered and pleased by her satisfaction at the sight of him.

"Oh, how glad I am!" she exclaimed, holding both his hands so tightly that it would have been difficult to withdraw them if he wished. Her frock was touching his coat as she stood gazing into his face. "Such a dreadfully long time, Mark!" she continued. "I hope you are going to stay in London at last."

"Yes, all my wanderings are over," he answered.

"Do sit down," she said, releasing his hands. "I hope the room isn't too hot. I have a fire chiefly for company's sake, you know."

"Have you been feeling dull?" he asked, sitting down at one end of the large sofa, while she sank on to the other.

"Only during the evenings," she explained. "I sit here by myself night after night. I try to read, but gradually my thoughts wander, and I'm back at home again. Home is always the dear old house at Crowborough."

"Well now," said Mark, "what have you been doing all these weeks?"

"Oh, I—I don't know," she answered, trifling with some trimming on her dress.

"Anyhow," suggested Mark, looking round the large room, "you seem to have plenty of flowers."

They were standing in every available space: in pots, in bowls, in vases; the air of the room was laden with their scent.

"They all came from Colonel Faversham," said Bridget, more soberly than usual. "Have you seen Carrissima by any chance?"

"This afternoon," returned Mark.

"Then you know she has seen me. I think she is perfectly sweet, Mark! She came here a few days after you went away, and asked me to go to Grandison Square. She gave me leave to look her up as often as I liked. I took her at her word. Oh, I assure you I feel very much at home there." Bridget lowered her eyes, paused a moment, then raised them again to Mark's face. "The question is," she said slowly, as if she were carefully choosing her words, "whether I shall make it my home—for good, you understand. I have been longing for you to come so that I might—that I might ask your advice."

"What about?" demanded Mark, somewhat taken aback by her outspokenness.

"Oh, how dense you must be if you can't really guess," she said.

"I don't think I shall try," was the answer.

"Oh well, if you make me say it! Colonel Faversham wants me to marry him. Now the murder is out, isn't it?"

"Almost as detestable a crime!" cried Mark. "Do you mean that he has actually asked you——"

"If he hadn't, how should I know?" she replied. "Because there's always the chance of a slip between the cup and the lip. Besides, even such an unreticent person as myself couldn't possibly anticipate. I dare say you wonder that I talk to you about it, in any case; but then, you see, I have nobody else."

"You haven't done anything so monstrous as to accept him?" said Mark.

"Oh—monstrous!" she murmured.

"Of course, it's unthinkable!"

"Indeed it is not," said Bridget. "If you only knew how I have lain awake thinking of it. Still, I wouldn't say 'yes.' I have kept the poor dear man in suspense till your return. He is quite ridiculously—well, in love with me, I suppose he would call it."

"Obviously you are nothing of the kind," suggested Mark.

"In love—with Colonel Faversham!" she cried, with a laugh. "You know, Mark, he is most horridly jealous."

"So there's some one else?"

"Only you," she said, and Mark started to his feet.

"Jealous of me! Oh, good Lord!" he exclaimed, and suddenly became aware that Bridget was keeping him under close observation.

"Idiotic of him, isn't it?" she remarked, continuing hastily, "but you haven't given me your serious opinion. I want you to make a cool survey of the situation."

"I thought I had," said Mark. "Of course, you must refuse."

"That is all very well," she urged, "but there's something else you must tell me. Supposing that I refuse to marry the colonel, what is to become of me?"

"There are your aunts at Sandbay!"

"Oh yes, my dear little Dresden china aunts! And, you know, Mark, there's the River Thames. I would as soon plunge into the one as take a train to the others."

"What is to prevent you from staying here?" he asked. "If you are tired of London, try Paris again. You can surely go where you please."

"How few are lucky enough for that!"

"I thought," said Mark, "you had the world before you."

"More likely the workhouse," answered Bridget.

"You don't mean to say you're—you're hard up!" he cried, returning to his seat on the sofa.

"Oh, I have plenty of money at the bank," she explained. "Mark, I detest talking about it, but I really should love to tell you. During mother's lifetime, you must remember how comfortably we used to live. I always had everything I wanted—for that matter, so I have until this moment. Naturally," Bridget continued, "I believed that the house and everything were kept up by father's books."

"Wasn't that the case?" asked Mark.

"As a matter of fact," said Bridget, "they brought in very little money indeed."

"Surely his name was very well known!"

"Yes, and he had heaps of friends who thought ever so much of him. There are hundreds of press cuttings praising him up to the skies. During the last few months of his life he scarcely read anything else. The doctors gave his illness a long name—I dare say you would understand if I could remember; but what killed him was a broken heart."

"How was that?" asked Mark.

"What we really lived upon," answered Bridget, "was my mother's income. That died with her—all but a small sum, which she left to me. We were compelled to leave Crowborough, and father seemed to droop like some transplanted flower. We wandered from place to place, and I suppose he was extravagant. I seem to take after him. Neither of us could bother about economy and that sort of thing. He felt the change dreadfully, and the tragedy was that he couldn't pull himself together in his necessity. Instead of writing better, he wrote much worse. He could satisfy neither himself nor any one else. His sales fell off; he saw he wasn't doing good work. I believe that broke his heart."

"Didn't he leave you anything?" asked Mark.

"Nothing whatever. He knew he was dying and told me to communicate with his old friend Mr. Frankfort, a solicitor. But there was nothing due from publishers—not a penny; so it was fortunate I had the money that had been left by my mother, wasn't it?"

"Do you mind," suggested Mark, "telling me how much that was?"

"I don't mind telling you anything," she said. "I want you to know all about me. I love to tell you. It was invested to bring in a hundred and twenty pounds a year; but what is that?"

"Not enough to live upon as you are living here," he admitted.

"Nor anywhere else," she replied. "It's no earthly use, Mark. I am spoiled for that. I draw cheques when I want any money, and now and then I get a letter from the bank manager to say my account is overdrawn. I go to see him; my deed-box is fetched up from the realms below, the manager sells something for me, and so I go along till the next time."

"Then you are living on your capital!" cried Mark.

"What else can I live upon?" she demanded.

"The interest—naturally."

"Now, do you really think I look the sort of person to live on a hundred pounds a year?" she said, throwing out her hands.

"But if you haven't got any more! Don't you realize," he suggested, "that the day is bound to come when you will find yourself out in the cold?"

"Oh yes," she said, with a sigh. "That's when I get a fit of the miserables. But something is certain to happen."

"You anticipate a miracle?"

"It wouldn't be far out of the natural order of things," she replied.

"You expect some one—one of your aunts, for instance—to leave you a fortune!" said Mark.

"Oh dear, no! I am not in the least likely to wish any one to die. Really I think you are rather stupid this evening. There might be a marriage, you know. Such things do happen!"

"Anyhow," he answered, "you mustn't let yourself be frightened into marrying Colonel Faversham."

Rising from her end of the sofa, Bridget glided to his, and standing close in front of him, so that her skirt brushed his knees, she looked insinuatingly into his face.

"Will you," she said, "kindly tell me what I am to do, Mr. Driver?"



CHAPTER XI

MARK REPORTS PROGRESS

Mark Driver must have been much more obtuse than the most of his friends believed, to fail to recognize the invitation in Bridget's demeanour. Although he had not the slightest intention to profit by it, he could not pretend that for the moment it lacked enticement.

It seemed perfectly clear that she was holding the balance between himself and Colonel Faversham; and realizing that her income must some day inevitably be exhausted, shrinking from an appeal to her aunts at Sandbay, that she was determined to take Time by the forelock and seek safety in marriage.

Mark could understand now the significance of her behaviour during the first few weeks of their acquaintance, and while this offer of herself was in a manner distasteful, she looked so young, so seductive, so ingenuous while she made it that he must needs blame her environment rather than her disposition.

Bridget impressed him as a child masquerading in the garments of a somewhat audacious woman of the world, and he told himself that if she could be placed amidst more favourable surroundings, her natural character would shine forth triumphantly. Moreover, he was by no means free from egoism. He had enough vanity to experience some shadow of gratification, and even though the other candidate was no one more estimable than Colonel Faversham, there was, perhaps, a grain of satisfaction in the knowledge that he might have been first in the field.

As a matter of fact, Mark had never in his life been more attracted by Carrissima than on this first day after his return to London. At the same time he was a young man and Bridget was an extremely captivating young woman. Notwithstanding a sense of disapproval, it became judicious to take the precaution of saying "good-bye."

"Well, what am I to do?" asked Bridget, as he sat silent.

"I'm blessed if I know," he answered, and at once rose to his feet.

He saw that she was profoundly disappointed, and although it appeared plain enough that the transaction would in any case be regarded by her as mainly mercantile, he fancied that she would have been in other ways delighted if his answer had been different.

"Neither do I," she said, with a sigh, "unless I make up my mind to gratify Colonel Faversham. Why shouldn't I? Look upon this picture and on this. A year or two at the outside, and on the one hand I find myself without a penny. On the other, I have only to say the word and I make certain, as soon as I please, of a fair income, a good house and an excellent position in society; because, you know, I could hold my own. You see me here living through a kind of interregnum. I am just nobody! But in Paris and other places it used to be different, and so I intend it to be again. What else is there? You make an immense mistake if you imagine me as a governess or anything of that kind. What could I teach?"

"Anyhow," answered Mark, holding out his hand, "you need not do anything impetuously. At the worst your money will hold out for some time to come."

"Oh dear, yes!" she cried more brightly, "and before it has all gone, why, I shall be provided with somebody else's."

Still she looked up at him rather pitifully, her eyes meeting his own, her chin invitingly raised with its delectable dimple. Now, Mark wished devoutly that the idea of that dimple as a sort of point d'appui had never entered his thoughts, but there was the regrettable fact. Of course he had hitherto always resisted the temptation, which was the greater because he knew that he need not fear opposition; but still, there was Carrissima and he resisted it again.

He went to Grandison Square the following afternoon as if to seek a corrective; and once in her presence marvelled at his own weakness. Here was the woman, as somebody says, for him to go picnicking through the world with. Not that the time had arrived just yet. Mark was not without a sturdy independence. Besides, there would be Colonel Faversham to deal with. As soon as he had made a beginning in his profession, then would be the time to ask Carrissima to share his lot.

"Well, did you see Bridget?" she asked.

"Oh yes," said Mark.

"If you appointed yourself her father-confessor she must have been a wee bit surprised."

"The surprise was on my side," said Mark.

"What about?" demanded Carrissima.

"The state of her finances. All she has in the world is the remnant of two or three thousand pounds she inherited from her mother. Rosser left her nothing, and she is calmly spending her capital."

"But why," suggested Carrissima, "should she go out of her way to enlighten you about her income?"

"Anyhow," was the answer, "the time is bound to come when she won't possess one."

"What does she propose to do in that case?" said Carrissima. "At present her dressmaker's bill must be rather extravagant, and I wish I could buy such hats! I suppose," Carrissima added, "that marriage is to be the way out of her difficulty."

"At least," replied Mark, "you may console yourself that nothing is settled at the moment."

"How do you know?" asked Carrissima hastily.

"You may accept it as a fact," he insisted.

"Undoubtedly," she retorted, "your conversation must have taken an extraordinary turn last night. Mark, you are rather tantalizing. It is so evident that you are only favouring me with elegant extracts."

"Oh well, I don't want to give the girl away," he said. "And look here, Carrissima, I don't want you to drop upon her too heavily."

"Is that a custom of mine?" she exclaimed. "As if I want to drop upon her at all! Frankly, I like Bridget. You see, we are in agreement so far. Or rather, I should like her if she would let the foolish colonel go. Oh dear, I really ought not to talk in this way!"

"Upon my word," said Mark, "I believe she scarcely realizes what she is doing."

"Then you admit she is doing it!"

"A kind of youthful irresponsibility," he returned. "That accounts for everything."

"You seem to forget she is older than I am," said Carrissima.

He laughed as he looked down at her small figure, and if he had not by any means succeeded in relieving her dismal anticipations concerning Colonel Faversham, he had to a certain degree caused her to feel easier about his own future. Flattering herself that she had now a firm grip of the situation, Carrissima began to marvel that a man of her father's long experience could remain blind to the facts of the case.

"Father," she said, alone with him after dinner the same evening, "I heard some rather astonishing news this afternoon."

"Ah well," answered the colonel, "it takes a great deal to astonish me. The more I know of the world the more extraordinary things I expect to hear."

"It was about Bridget," said Carrissima.

"What about her?" he demanded, turning in his chair to face his daughter.

"Judging from the way she lives and dresses," Carrissima continued, "I always assumed she had plenty of money."

"I hate to see a girl of your age mercenary," was the answer. "Good gracious, when I was two-and-twenty I never gave money a thought. I should never have dreamed of bothering myself about the amount of my friends' incomes. I don't now for that matter. Always keep your heart young, Carrissima! I am as disinterested now as ever I was in my salad days, thank goodness! Odd where you get this calculating habit!"

"I didn't know I was mercenary and calculating and all the rest of it," said Carrissima. "I thought, perhaps, you might feel interested to hear——"

"To hear what?" cried Colonel Faversham. "If I had wished to learn the amount of Bridget's income I should simply have paid a shilling and gone to Somerset House to look at David Rosser's will. But I didn't. I've a mind above that sort of thing."

"You wouldn't have got much information there," said Carrissima, "because Mr. Rosser left nothing. Bridget's money came from her mother."

"How did you discover that?" asked Colonel Faversham.

"Mark told me."

"Has he seen Bridget?" the colonel exclaimed in some surprise, because he had spent the afternoon at Golfney Place and she had not for a wonder mentioned Mark's name.

"Yes, he went after dinner last night," said Carrissima. "There's not the least shadow of doubt that she has been waiting to see whether he would ask her to marry him."

"Scandal!" shouted Colonel Faversham indignantly. "Abominable scandal! How the devil is it possible you can know whether she expected Mark Driver to ask her to marry him or not?"

"It is perfectly certain," said Carrissima, "that unless she marries somebody or other she will find herself without any money to live upon."

Although Carrissima spoke after prolonged reflection, and considered that the peculiar circumstances of the case justified the means she was employing, she could not feel very pleased with herself. She disliked anything underhanded; but, then, she disliked the prospect of Bridget's becoming Mrs. Faversham still more. Instead, however, of causing Colonel Faversham to hold his hand, Carrissima merely succeeded in egging him on. Rising excitedly from his chair he stood glaring at her for a few moments, as if he were going to break into a torrent of abuse; but turning abruptly away he left the room, slamming the door behind him so that the house shook. Making his way down-stairs he sat up late in the smoking-room, and when at last he went to bed, found it impossible to sleep.

During the small hours it seemed almost as though Carrissima's hint might prove of some avail. For the first time he began to hesitate concerning the future. In an exceptionally sane interval he came near to agreement with his daughter. Her remark about Bridget's means had been, in fact, a revelation. Not that he cared whether she possessed any money or not, but the absence of it might be a deplorable temptation.

Could it be possible that she had been deliberately awaiting Mark's return, postponing her answer to the older man until she convinced herself there was not a chance of securing the younger? An infuriating suspicion, but still not capable of causing Colonel Faversham's withdrawal. On the contrary, as he shaved the following morning, cutting his chin rather badly, he told himself that if only Bridget would consent to marry him, every other consideration might go to limbo!

By eleven o'clock he was waiting in the sitting-room at Number 5, Golfney Place. Until her appearance he walked restlessly from the fireplace to the farthest window, stopping to look at the uninviting oleographs on the wall, inspecting the row of David Rosser's novels which filled the hanging shelf.

Colonel Faversham was in an unstable mood this morning. Why couldn't Bridget come? She must know by this time that he detested waiting! Every other minute he glanced at the door, and at last when she entered breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"What a very early bird!" she cried, coming towards him in her graceful, unhurried way.

"I want to catch the—— No, no," he said, "that won't do! You didn't tell me you had seen Mark Driver!" he added, holding her hand.

"Didn't I?" was the casual answer. "But why should I? You surely don't imagine for a moment I tell you everything! How deeply astonished you would be! What an amusing disillusionment!"

"Why should it be?" he demanded. "What have you to be ashamed of?"

"Ever so much," said Bridget. "So many men would like to shut us up in harems, wouldn't they?"

"It depends on the woman," returned the colonel.

"I assure you it would never answer in my case," she exclaimed. "Neither bolts nor bars would keep me in."

"My dear," he said, "you drive me half out of my mind. You give me no peace."

"Oh, you poor thing!" she murmured, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Say you will be my wife and have done with it," he urged.

"Now, supposing—only supposing that I were foolish enough——"

"You will," he cried, and doubtless he looked a little ridiculous as he went down on one knee. The joint, too, was stiffer than usual this morning.

"What do you imagine," she suggested, "that Carrissima would say—and your son!"

At this alarming reminder Colonel Faversham made an attempt to rise, but to his annoyance a cry of pain escaped. Unable for the moment to straighten his knee, he remained at Bridget's feet, conscious of the anti-climax.

"Let me help you," she said, sympathetically offering her hand.

"Good heavens!" he cried; "why do you imagine I require help! I am quite able to help myself. I never depend on other people. Give me independence," he added, standing upright though the effort made him wince.

"Yet you ask me to sacrifice mine!" said Bridget. "But what would Mr. Lawrence Faversham have to say?"

"Upon my soul I can't imagine," was the answer.

"I believe you are thoroughly afraid of him and Carrissima. Well, so am I," she admitted.

Colonel Faversham had never held Lawrence in greater awe than at this moment when he believed that happiness lay within his grasp. He perceived that Carrissima the previous evening must have been attempting to influence him, and consequently that she already suspected his intentions. Now Colonel Faversham had often turned the matter over in his mind, with the result that he conceived a plan which, if it could only be carried successfully out, might obviate everything unpleasant.

"Lawrence," he said, "is a good fellow. A little too good, perhaps. I have never pretended to be an anchorite. I've too much warm blood still in my veins. Come to that, I'm to all intents and purposes a younger man than my son. I have the greatest respect for Lawrence, but he seems to have been born old."

"You can't say that of Carrissima!"

"No, no, a dear girl," he replied. "But a little sarcastic at times. I detest sarcasm. I won't allow it. But no man can control a woman's face. I can see Carrissima's smile," he added, taking out his handkerchief and mopping his forehead.

"How ridiculous," said Bridget, "to make yourself so uncomfortable on my account."

"Let him laugh who wins!" cried Colonel Faversham. "If they think I'm a fool—well, I don't want to be wise. Of course, there's one way——"

"What is that?" asked Bridget.

"I don't know whether you would put up with it," said the colonel. "Why," he suggested with eager eyes on her face, "why in the world shouldn't we keep it to ourselves?"

"How would it be possible?" she said, with a thoughtful expression.

"Trust me for that," was the answer. "There are few things I can't do when I make up my mind. Admit the principle, and everything else is easy! Keep it dark, you know. In the first place you've got to promise to be my wife. We don't breathe a word to any living being. Then one fine morning we go out and get the knot tied: at a registry office, a church, anywhere you like."

"I shouldn't feel that I was properly married," said Bridget, "unless I went to church."

"Then you will!" urged Colonel Faversham, half beside himself with satisfaction.

"Please let me hear the whole scheme," she insisted.

"Don't you see," he explained, "you and I—my dear little wife—would be off somewhere abroad. Anywhere you choose!"

"Italy," said Bridget. "We would travel through to Milan, then on to Rome, Naples, Capri—Capri would be delightful."

"My darling!"

"But," she continued, "your plan is quite out of the question. I hate anything resembling secrecy. Surely you don't imagine that if I married you I shouldn't want every one to know."

"Why, naturally," said the colonel. "We should send Carrissima a telegram from Paris. The point is that she wouldn't know what had happened until we were out of reach. By the time we got back to Grandison Square she would have learnt to take a sensible view of the accomplished fact. So would Lawrence."

"Oh dear, you sound like a child who is bent on doing something he ought to be ashamed of!"

"It's true you make me feel like a boy again," he admitted. "Not that I have ever felt anything you could call old or even middle-aged. It will be the proudest day of my life if you consent," he added, and then Bridget broke into a laugh. She threw back her head as if she were putting away every misgiving, and Colonel Faversham drew near with the intention to take her in his arms. Her demeanour suddenly stiffened, however. In a condescending way she graciously permitted him to press his lips to her cheek; nor was this unexpected reserve the only drawback to his new happiness.

In his impetuosity he called her attention to the advantage of a quiet wedding, since there would be no absurd preparations to cause delay. As they had only to please themselves, they might just as well get married forthwith . . . say next week or the week after. Bridget, however, quite good-humouredly refused to entertain any suggestion of the kind, protesting that she had done enough for one morning. With these mitigations, Colonel Faversham's glee appeared fatuous. Always disposed to boast of his capacity to vie with men a quarter of a century younger than himself, he had never, surely, done so well as now! He went to Donaldson's for a diamond ring, which was put on Bridget's finger the same afternoon, although she declared it must be taken off again the moment he had gone. The secret must be thoroughly kept!

While Colonel Faversham approved of every endeavour to keep Carrissima and everybody else in the dark for the present, he was determined to stand no nonsense. He requested her to go to Golfney Place, and following the line of least resistance, she went, persuading Bridget to come to Grandison Square as her father wished. There one afternoon a few days after the beginning of her engagement she met Jimmy Clynesworth.



CHAPTER XII

SYBIL

Miss Clynesworth was considerably the oldest member of the group (consisting of the Favershams, the Drivers and the Clynesworths) with which this episode in Bridget Rosser's life is concerned.

She was, in fact, more than forty years of age, and even in her adolescence she had never been beautiful. On the other hand, her face wore too amiable an expression to be considered very plain, and there was an almost captivating quaintness in the old-fashioned figure she presented. She seldom added to her wardrobe unless Jimmy bantered her into it and gave her a cheque which, as a matter of honour, was to be used for that especial purpose. Even then Sybil sometimes ventured to deceive him.

Short, although not quite so short as Carrissima, she had a thickset but flat figure, and a conscientious objection to make her drabbish-coloured hair appear more plentiful than it was.

Her skin was rather florid, her light blue eyes were prominent, her features being the only part of her with any approach to boldness. A kind of amateur ministering angel, she was often appealed to—and never in vain—by those in illness or affliction. Sybil Clynesworth was one of the women (not so rare as might be imagined in these days) into whose calculations the idea of marriage had seldom or never entered. Perhaps her powerful maternal instinct had been diffused from her youth up, and she regarded all who were in bodily or spiritual need as her children. It will be seen that she had a large family!

It seems probable that Sybil's charitable inclinations were inherited from her father and Jimmy's; since this half-brother of hers might be said to share them in a secret, shamefaced way. But with the difference that while the one took life with profound seriousness, the other appeared to look upon it as a huge jest.

Without Jimmy, however, Sybil's hands would have been tied. Whilst disagreeing entirely with his opinions, disapproving of many of his actions, she never scrupled to avail herself of his munificence, failing which her occupation would have gone. Above everything, Sybil desired to see Jimmy take his proper place in the country. He ought certainly to enter the House of Commons, and, in fact, to do a great many things which he persisted in leaving undone; above all, perhaps, he ought to marry Carrissima.

"I wish," said Sybil, the morning after her return from looking after Lady Ramsbottom, "you would go to Grandison Square this afternoon, Jimmy. I should be so very much obliged if you would ask dear Carrissima to be kind enough to come and see me to-morrow."

"You obviously take me for a halfpenny postcard," he answered. "If I go it will be without prejudice. Don't imagine I'm blind to your little game! Sybil, I'm fed up with Carrissima. A thousand to one she will end by marrying old Mark."

"Jimmy," said Sybil reproachfully, "you know I never bet. You would give me the greatest pleasure in the world. I long to see you married to some really nice girl."

"Whether I care for her or not!" suggested Jimmy.

"Oh, how can you put such words into my mouth?" said Sybil. "As if I were capable of dreaming of such a thing. Some dear girl whom you love and respect——"

"That's the difficulty," he answered. "Here I am waiting and trying not to be impatient, but she doesn't come along. As soon as I see a dear girl and love and respect her, I'll marry her like a shot if she's willing. Probably she won't be because, you see, she would have to love and respect me."

Having nothing better to do and little dreaming of the fate in preparation for him, Jimmy set out in due course to Grandison Square, where, ten minutes earlier, Mrs. Reynolds had arrived: a tall, thin woman of about fifty years of age, who had been an intimate friend of the late Mrs. Faversham. She had a pleasant, if too grave face, and a certain dignity of bearing. On her entrance, she sat down close to Colonel Faversham's chair, holding him so closely in an uninteresting conversation that he could not pay the slightest attention to Bridget. She, left to her own devices, looked peculiarly charming this afternoon, in a new hat, which Carrissima knew must have cost quite five guineas.

Colonel Faversham's face wore a gloomy expression. He was annoyed because Bridget had not been introduced to Mrs. Reynolds, and in considerable pain from the increasing rheumatism in his knee joint. In the midst of his old friend's monologue, Knight announced—

"Mr. Clynesworth."

"Good-afternoon, Jimmy," cried Carrissima, rising promptly from her chair. "How nice and surprising of you to come!"

"I'll tell the truth if I perish," he answered. "The fact is I was sent. I'm a special messenger."

"Then Sybil is at home!"

"She turned up last night," he explained. "The world has naturally stood still during her absence, and she hasn't a moment to spare for the ordinary pleasures of life. Moral, will you look her up to-morrow?"

Jimmy then turned to Mrs. Reynolds, who was sitting with a deprecatory expression on her face, while Colonel Faversham, seeing an opportunity to cross the room to Bridget, gripped the arms of his chair preparatory to rising.

"Ah, Jimmy!" he said. "I'm glad to see you!"

"Yes, but please don't get up, colonel," returned Jimmy, looking sympathetically at his host's leg. "A little stiff at the joint? Rheumatism, I suppose?"

"Nothing of the sort," said Colonel Faversham, wincing, as he stood erect. "I never felt better in my life."

"In fact," suggested Carrissima, "father has a growing pain."

"I have not any pain in my body," cried the colonel, devoutly wishing he had not. "I will walk you twenty miles any day you like."

"Walking," said Jimmy, "is becoming a lost art. We all choose some other mode of locomotion when we can. If we don't fly, we motor, and before long it will be quite customary to skate on the pavement."

"Jimmy, your presence is demoralizing," answered Carrissima. "Mrs. Reynolds was discussing the influence of democracy on the fine arts, and now you have brought us down to frivolity."

"I don't think you know Miss Rosser," said Colonel Faversham, drawing nearer to the empty chair by Bridget's side. "Mr. Clynesworth—Miss Rosser."

The colonel would have given something to avoid this presentation, but since Jimmy had unfortunately come, he would not allow Bridget to be left out in the cold. As Jimmy bowed, he coolly took the chair which would have already been occupied, if caution and time had not been desirable this afternoon in Colonel Faversham's movements.

"I should have known you anywhere," said Bridget, without the least hesitation. "Your photograph," she explained, as Mrs. Reynolds changed her position to engage her host's attention, "has represented you during your absence. Carrissima was kind enough to fill in the colours."

"It's to be hoped she laid them on with a trowel," was the answer, "and gave me a better character than I deserve."

"Don't you deserve a good one?"

"Oh well, I am not going to give myself away," said Jimmy. "Anyhow, I'm far from deserving this good fortune."

Her cheerful laugh brought Colonel Faversham's anxious eyes to her face, and he began to realize the disadvantages of a secret engagement.

"I think," she was remarking, "that I used to know Miss Clynesworth."

"A liberal education," said Jimmy, "and I hope you will soon improve it. Quite infuriating," he added.

"What is?" asked Bridget.

"The cussedness of destiny! Weeks have passed since Carrissima came to ask Sybil to look you up. If she had been in London she would have flown to your house; you might graciously have returned her visit; I should have seen you, and precious time would have been saved."

"It's never too late to mend," said Bridget. "I mean, of course, for your sister."

"You regard me as hopeless?"

"You appear to be full of confidence," she answered.

"I am," he said, "but naturally Sybil can't go to see you until she knows your address."

Hearing her tell him that she was lodging at Number 5, Golfney Place, Colonel Faversham could endure it no longer. Interrupting Mrs. Reynolds' discourse quite rudely, he limped across the room, whereupon Jimmy at once rose to his feet.

"Sit down, colonel," he urged. "You will have to give old Mark a turn before you've done."

"I have not troubled a doctor for the last ten years," said Colonel Faversham.

"Oh, Mark wouldn't mind the trouble," cried Jimmy, and then he began to say "good-bye."

Never until this afternoon had Colonel Faversham seen Bridget in a room with any one outside his own family. While on the one hand he rejoiced to observe the ease of her manner, it dawned upon him that she was not likely to be contented to shut herself off from all the world but himself. Departing from his custom, he went to Golfney Place after dinner that evening, and, flinging himself recklessly into a chair, began to rail against Mrs. Reynolds.

"I hate a woman with a long tongue!" he exclaimed. "Talk, talk, talk! She would argue with the Recording Angel! I positively saw nothing of you this afternoon. No time for a sensible word."

"Still, I have managed to survive, you see," said Bridget, "and Mr. Clynesworth is lovely!"

"So is a python from one point of view!" was the answer.

"Oh, what a far-fetched comparison!" she said, and leaned back, laughing, in her chair.

"Not at all," cried Colonel Faversham. "You'll generally find there's something in what I say. You can't be too careful of a man like Jimmy Clynesworth. For my part, I very seldom know what he is talking about; I question whether he knows himself. I am a plain, straightforward man—but there! I didn't come to talk about Jimmy."

"I thought you did," said Bridget.

"No, no," he replied; "I want you to fix the day for our marriage. Upon my word, I don't feel quite certain that frankness isn't the best in the long run—far the best."

The effect of this expression of opinion surprised Colonel Faversham. He had never seen Bridget so greatly excited. She started to her feet, and flushed almost as deeply as Carrissima.

"If you mean," she exclaimed, "that you have changed your mind, I have not changed mine. After all your wonderful arguments! Please understand, you are not to breathe a word to anybody, and to talk of our marriage before we have been engaged a week is really too ridiculous for anything."

Although Colonel Faversham left Golfney Place in a condition of intense dissatisfaction however, his sensations might have proved even more unenviable if he could have heard what Jimmy Clynesworth said to Sybil the same afternoon.



CHAPTER XIII

A WALK ABROAD

"Sybil," said Jimmy, "at last I've seen her!"

"And did she say she would come to-morrow?" asked his sister.

"Oh well, of course you must go there in the first place," he answered.

"Jimmy, what do you mean?" said Sybil, with an expression of bewilderment. "It is not in the least like Carrissima to be so ceremonious——"

"Who was talking about Carrissima?" cried Jimmy.

"I naturally thought you were."

"Not a bit of it," said Jimmy. "Bridget—Miss Rosser!"

"Rosser—Rosser," murmured Sybil, taxing her memory. "I fancy there used to be some people named Rosser at Crowborough when I stayed with Colonel Faversham so many years ago."

"You must go and see her to-morrow," urged Jimmy. "The address is Number 5, Golfney Place. There's the woman I should like to marry," added Jimmy, causing Sybil to jump out of her chair.

She pleaded tentatively, however, that she could not go the following afternoon, for the simple reason that she expected a visit from Carrissima, whose arrival she now eagerly awaited.

"My dear," she said, pecking at her visitor's cheeks, as she clung to her hand, "I've been positively longing to see you. How very well you are looking! Now pray sit down and tell me all about this Miss Rosser."

"So Jimmy has already been singing her praises," suggested Carrissima.

"Oh dear, he simply took my breath away," said Sybil. "You would never believe it! He actually told me he should like to marry her! Did ever you hear such a thing?"

"He never loved who loved not at first sight," cried Carrissima, with a laugh.

"Of course, my dear, Jimmy was only joking," said Sybil.

"I scarcely imagined he had made up his mind so rapidly," answered Carrissima, "although Bridget is obviously quite irresistible. What an admirable solution! How I wish it might come to pass!"

"Oh, but, Carrissima!"

"It's no use," she said. "Self-preservation is the first law of nature, and if she doesn't marry Jimmy she will very likely marry my father."

"Carrissima!" cried Sybil in the tone of one severely shocked.

"I am perfectly serious," was the reply.

"But a man of the colonel's age! And what a horrid—horrid person she must be!"

"Oh dear, no," said Carrissima. "You will see what she is. If only Jimmy effects a diversion I shall feel grateful as long as I live."

The net result of the interview with Carrissima was that Sybil did an extremely unusual thing. Although Jimmy strongly urged her to go to Golfney Place, she positively refused to gratify him.

"Jimmy, I am very, very sorry," she insisted, "but I couldn't possibly go. Miss Rosser really doesn't seem to be quite respectable."

"That generally signifies something rather piquant, you know," said Jimmy in his equable way. "Just think of the things and the people we do respect—in your delightful sense. If we could only see through their skins; though of course they're far too thick. Anyhow, if you won't go now, you will later on, and meantime," he added, "you throw me on my own resources."

The consequence of Sybil's refusal was that Jimmy passed the end of Golfney Place several times a day and presently met with a reward. It was about half-past eleven one sunny morning that he saw Bridget come forth from her door, and without a glance in his direction, turn towards the further end of the street. Quickening his pace, he at once set out in pursuit. Walking behind her, he saw the light on her chestnut-coloured hair, saw that she knew (rare accomplishment) how to walk, and a few moments later, still a foot or two in the rear, he exclaimed—

"Good-morning, Miss Rosser."

"Oh, good-morning, Mr. Clynesworth," she answered, without stopping.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To my dressmaker's in Dover Street!"

"May I go with you——"

"That sounds," cried Bridget gaily, "like the beginning of a nursery rhyme."

"There never was a prettier maid," he answered, walking by her side.

"I suppose you know a great many," she suggested.

"They are all cast into oblivion——"

"Is it your experience," said Bridget, turning to look into his face, "that they appreciate this—this sort of thing?"

"Don't you?" asked Jimmy.

"I rather prefer being spoken to as if I were a reasonable being!"

"I was hoping you were not one," he said. "The spring is too intoxicating. Everything," he continued, as they turned with one consent from Knightsbridge into the park, "seems unaccustomed, fresh, young, and you the most of all. Hang being reasonable! Suggest something mad and let us do it together. But," he cried, abruptly changing his tone, "what should you like me to talk about?"

"I suppose your favourite topic is yourself," she said. "Tell me what you do—if ever you do anything."

"I don't," he replied. "I am what is called a spoilt child of fortune."

"You like being spoilt?"

"It depends on the spoiler. Sometimes I hate it."

"Why?" asked Bridget.

"Oh well," he said, as they walked by the side of Rotten Row, and Jimmy occasionally lifted his straw hat to some passer-by who did not fail to stare at his companion, "if we have to be serious, one has moments of inspiration and pines for better things."

"Aren't they within your reach?"

"Your most ardent socialist," said Jimmy, "won't dream of pooling his money till the millennium. What would be the use of my setting to work and cutting out some poor devil who wants it?"

"Mightn't you go into parliament?" suggested Bridget.

"Original minds there are at a discount."

"Is your mind original?"

"An independent member is certain to be shunted at the first opportunity," said Jimmy. "They want men who think in droves."

"There's the army," returned Bridget. "At least you might learn how to defend your country."

"Yes, I have done that," he said, as they reached Hyde Park Corner. "I used to be in the —th Hussars. Unfortunately, I got a rather bad sunstroke in India. That may account for any small eccentricity you notice."

"I was wondering," answered Bridget.

"As I had to come home," he explained, "and to keep quiet for I don't know how long, I sold out. Since then I've raised a troop of yeomanry at Atlinghurst. I have a place there, you know."

"Surely you might find a useful occupation in its management!"

"I did," said Jimmy, "until it was taken away."

"How?" asked Bridget.

"Simply because of one of the prettiest girls you have ever seen," he answered, bringing Bridget's eyes again to his face.

"I understand," she murmured.

"I'm certain you don't," he said, with a laugh. "Erica Danvers. She got herself engaged to a man who used to be at Trinity with me. The misfortune was that he had six brothers older than himself. Well, Erica came to me one day and declared she had hit on a capital plan. Why shouldn't I make Bolsover my steward, pay him a living wage, and all the rest of it. He and Erica have twins," added Jimmy.

Bridget walked a few yards along Piccadilly in silence.

"You have been extraordinarily unfortunate," she said rather gravely, "although you ought to be pitied rather than blamed."

"Not since I met you the other afternoon. Do you see much of old Faversham?" he asked, for the colonel's admiration had been manifest at Grandison Square.

"He has always been very kind to me," she faltered.

"Surely you meet with kindness everywhere," said Jimmy.

"Except from Fate!" answered Bridget, with a sigh.

"Wait and see!" he exclaimed. "The better part of life is before you."

"Are you by way of telling my fortune?" asked Bridget.

"I hope to be allowed to influence it," said Jimmy, as she stopped at the corner of Dover Street. "You will let me come and see you," he urged, taking her hand.

"You said your sister was coming!" Bridget reminded him.

"Yes," he said.

"You must ask her to bring you."



CHAPTER XIV

THE WOOING O'T

Jimmy Clynesworth now began to employ all his arts to induce Sybil to take some notice of Bridget. His eagerness, however, stood in his way. The more forcibly he attempted to convince his sister of his desire, the more obstinately she maintained her ground. Her hand was strengthened by a visit to Charteris Street, where Victor often attracted her, although some glass beads on her jacket made the child regard her as an enemy.

After Phoebe had voiced her husband's opinion of Miss Rosser, Lawrence himself came home in time to dot the i's and cross the t's. Sybil left the house with the opinion that poor Jimmy stood in the acutest danger. It seemed evident that she had scarcely exaggerated when she declared, in the first place, that Bridget was not "respectable"!

She stiffened herself as it was only possible to do when duty called her, and the consequence was that all of Jimmy's entreaties proved vain. He, however, was not on any account to be deterred. The only circumstance which would have been likely to hinder him was being sedulously hidden. Had he for an instant suspected the existence of any previous engagement he would have been the last man in the world to poach on another's preserve. As things were, he waited a few days, then presented himself with his usual cool audacity at Golfney Place.

"Where is Miss Clynesworth?" asked Bridget.

"I rather fancy she's spending the day somewhere in the neighbourhood of Deptford," was the answer.

"You must have forgotten what I told you," suggested Bridget.

"Every word you said is indelibly impressed on my memory," said Jimmy.

"I insisted," replied Bridget, "that you were not to come without your sister!"

"Oh dear, no," he exclaimed. "It's quite true you said I might come with her, but you will see on reflection that is a different matter."

"The fact is," said Bridget, "Miss Clynesworth is determined not to show me the light of her countenance."

"I am fairly certain that is a mistake," returned Jimmy. "I am convinced she will come, but not at present."

"Why not?"

He shrugged his shoulders and told himself that women were sometimes rather severe on one another. Wandering about the room, Jimmy looked at one or two of the oleographs on the light-papered walls, and presently his eyes rested on the hanging bookshelf.

"You have a collection of your father's novels!" he suggested.

"Have you read any of them?" she asked, with obviously quickened interest.

"Yes, several," was the answer. He took one down from the slide. "I was introduced to Mr. Rosser by old Faversham at Crowborough," he continued. "I wish to goodness I had seen you at the same time! Besides," continued Jimmy, as he turned the pages while Bridget stood looking over his shoulder, "I met him once afterwards. That was at the Garrick. I was dining there one evening, and he joined the party. I remember perfectly well that he was the life and soul of it. His books were always a delight to me, if only for their style."

Jimmy put back the volume he had been examining and took down another, continuing to discuss its contents for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour.

"Miss Rosser!" he cried suddenly, "I am the most arrant humbug!"

"Aren't you really interested in the books?" she asked.

"Yes, but, you know, life is more than letters. Not so much in the books as in you. Although I am going to ask you to let me take one of them home, and I shall enjoy reading it, my actual object is to find an excuse for coming again."

"Which will you take?" she asked.

"This looks promising," said Jimmy, selecting a grey-covered volume.

"It is about an ill-assorted marriage," she explained.

"Oh well, the majority of modern novels are."

"Certainly the majority of my father's," she said. "And yet his own marriage was such a perfect success."

"Obviously!" answered Jimmy, turning to face her.

"You have heard——"

"Not at all. The happy country has no history, you know. I merely judge by the result."

Her eyes fell under his gaze, and he saw the colour slowly mantle her face and neck. "Oh, why do you flatter me?" she murmured.

"Don't you like flattery?"

Now she raised her eyes again, meeting his own.

"Oh, I love it," she admitted. "But there are so very many undesirable things I adore."

"I wish I might become one of them!"

"Do you fulfil the condition of undesirability?" asked Bridget.

"Anyhow, I am one of the unemployed," he answered. "You see, I have been almost converted to opinions which cut away the ground from under my own feet. I have lived so far a delightful life, and now my conscience is beginning to nag me. The question is whether I am enjoying myself at some poor wretches' continual expense."

"Why have you never married, Mr. Clynesworth?" asked Bridget.

"I have seen only one woman I could ever care to make my wife."

"Isn't one enough?"

"She is bound to be in this country," was the answer; "although we may have to alter all that in order to get rid of our surplus!"

"Why haven't you married that one?"

"Well, I haven't asked her yet," said Jimmy. "Of course, I am going to, but there are, I suppose, rules to be observed. Hitherto, to tell you the truth, I have been a little frightened at the bare idea. One has so many object lessons! I know a man who was married a week or so ago. He was immensely fond of the girl, but I can swear she doesn't care for him a rap. Yet I imagine she succeeded in satisfying him that she was—well, over head and ears in love! So she was with some one else."

"Still, with so many awful examples," suggested Bridget, "you will naturally be cautious. For your own part, you would not put the momentous question to any woman unless you had the most perfect confidence——"

"Oh, I have!" he replied, more enthusiastically than she had ever heard him speak. "Being human, I suppose I am bound to assume there must be blemishes about her somewhere—I don't know where! But," Jimmy continued, "of one thing I am as certain as a man can be of anything in this world."

"What is that?" faltered Bridget.

"Her utter incapability of the remotest shadow of deception. At least I know that when the time comes to put my fate to the touch, she will answer with absolute honesty. If she loves me I shall be the most fortunate beggar under the sun, and if unhappily she doesn't, she will say so sans phrase."

"You put a premium on candour!" she suggested.

"Why, yes," he answered. "Whatever I may be I am not very intolerant, but double dealing is the one thing I think I might find it impossible to forgive. It isn't the spoken lie that's the worst."

"What is?" asked Bridget.

"The abominable whitewash we daub over our lives. The eternal pretence to be something we are not. The—— But," Jimmy broke off, with a laugh, "you must always pull me up when I show signs of beginning to preach!"

As he was speaking, the door opened and Miller in his quiet way announced—

"Colonel Faversham."

"Hullo, Jimmy, are you here!" he exclaimed, as Bridget offered her hand.

"Don't you think it looks rather like it?" answered Jimmy, with an ingratiating smile. "I hope your knee is better, colonel."

"Quite all right," said Colonel Faversham, with a scowl. "Never anything the matter with it. I am never ill. There isn't a sounder man in London."

"Oh well, that's a large order," answered Jimmy. "Still, at your age I don't suppose there is."

Colonel Faversham looked as if he would like to annihilate Jimmy, who was struggling to put David Rosser's novel into his jacket pocket. Then he said "good-bye" to Bridget, adding coolly—

"I shall bring back the book in a day or two."

With a nod to the colonel he left the room, whereupon Faversham lowered himself carefully into a chair.

"Has Jimmy often been here?" he demanded.

"Oh dear, no," she answered. "This is the first visit."

"Like his impudence! It won't be the last."

"I hope not," murmured Bridget, standing by the side of his chair.

"How many times have you met him since that afternoon at my house?" asked Colonel Faversham.

"Only once besides to-day!"

"He took that book," was the answer, "simply for the sake of bringing it back! I hate anything underhanded."

"But he isn't!" Bridget insisted. "He said that was his reason."

"Barefaced!" shouted the colonel. "The fact is Jimmy Clynesworth has never been the same since his sunstroke. Bridget," he added, "I should like to keep you entirely to myself. I should like——"

What his precise desire might be Bridget was not destined on the present occasion to hear. He suddenly stopped in the middle of his sentence, gazing at her with horror and alarm in his face. Covering hers, she had incontinently broken down, and her body shook with the violence of her sobs. Colonel Faversham found his feet so hastily that he could not suppress an exclamation as he stooped to rub his knee. He knew neither what to say nor how to act.

"What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Tell me what it is. Only let me know. What more can a man ask?"

"Oh, it is nothing," said Bridget amidst her tears. "Only that I am the most miserable woman in the world."

Although he did his best, he could not succeed in tranquilizing her, and finally went away, leaving her in the most despondent mood. Alone in his smoking-room the same evening, Colonel Faversham did his utmost to arrive at some explanation of Bridget's passionate outburst of grief.

Could it be possible she was distressed at the sight of his disapproval. He ought to keep a firmer rein on his temper! He must remember that Bridget was a delicate girl, and treat her with the kindness she deserved.

This more satisfactory explanation, however, did not prove entirely convincing. She might be unhappy because she repented of her promise; well, in any event he intended to keep her to it! She could scarcely think of breaking her engagement on Jimmy's account! She had spoilt herself for that. Colonel Faversham, as she must know, was not the man to stand silently by while she transferred herself to a younger aspirant. She had sense enough to understand, too, that Jimmy had only to hear of the existing engagement to retire from the competition.

As a matter of fact, Jimmy had no thought of drawing back. The following Sunday morning the sun seemed to shine more brightly than usual, and Bridget stood at one of the windows of her sitting-room, looking out at the few passers-by on their way to the white-fronted church farther along the street. Its bell was ringing cheerfully.

Until the last few years she had always lived in the country, and now her thoughts flew back to earlier days, and she pictured the fields and hedgerows, remembering the places where she used to find daffodils and primroses and violets. A longing seemed to seize upon her as the church bells left off ringing, and then she heard a hooter, and saw a dark-red motor-car stop at the door, with a chauffeur driving and Jimmy, with a light-brown fur rug over his knees, sitting alone behind.

"A magnificent morning!" he cried, entering her sitting-room a few moments later. "I couldn't resist the temptation, and to tell you the truth, I didn't try very hard. I hope you'll let me take you for a spin into the country."

"Of course it would be lovely!" said Bridget.

"Then I shall give you five minutes to get ready," answered Jimmy.

"I really mustn't," she insisted.

"Why not?" he demanded. "Aren't you as free as the larks?"

Bridget sighed as she stood looking out at the car in the street below.

"Come," urged Jimmy. "Let me take you to hear them sing!"

"Where?" she faltered.

"Oh, you must give me carte-blanche!"

"Suppose I were reckless enough!" said Bridget.

"We would go to the farthest and most secluded corner of the earth where the sun always shines, but never too fiercely."

"Then," she cried more brightly, "English wouldn't be spoken."

"You and I would understand each other," said Jimmy. "That is all I care for."

"There would be the coming back," she suggested.

"Not necessarily," he replied, and Bridget seemed to start as if some fresh idea had suddenly occurred to her mind. "Anyhow, we needn't think of returning before we set out," he continued.

"I mustn't," she repeated.

"But, indeed, you must."

"Mr. Clynesworth——"

"What," he asked, "is the matter with 'Jimmy'?"

"I fancy he is very—very foolish," said Bridget. "I should have to get back by three o'clock," she added.

"Well, half a loaf is better than no bread," he returned.

"You promise faithfully I shall be home by three!"

"Anything in the world so that you come," said Jimmy.

She went to get ready, and presently returned wearing a small hat which became her as well as the wide-brimmed one in which he had seen her the other morning. She carried a heavy cloak over her arm, and seemed to find it difficult to button her gloves. Finally she held out her hand to Jimmy, who lingered over the process; but by and by they went down-stairs together, out into the street, and he put her into the car, tucking the fur rug about her before taking his seat by her side. Colonel Faversham was at church with Carrissima, looking forward during the Lessons to the afternoon, when he intended to reach Golfney Place by half-past three.



CHAPTER XV

MARK MAKES A BEGINNING

Colonel Faversham, without being a bigoted Sabbatarian, liked to make a difference between Sunday and the other six days. He always expected a rather more elaborate dinner and never failed to go to sleep after luncheon. He allowed himself an extra cigar or two, and, in short, deprecated anything which threatened to disturb his peace.

During the last few days his mind, chiefly owing to lapse of time, had been easier concerning Bridget. Without being demonstratively affectionate, she appeared as cheerful as ever, so that he reached Number 5, Golfney Place at half-past three this afternoon with every hope of spending an agreeable hour or two in her presence.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed, before he had been many minutes in the room, "wild flowers!"

"I think they must be," said Bridget, with a laugh.

"They look fresh!"

"They ought to be," she answered. "They were growing an hour or two ago."

"In the country?" suggested the colonel.

"Wouldn't it be lovely if one could pick primroses and marsh marigolds in London!" said Bridget.

"Bridget," cried Colonel Faversham, "I believe you take a delight in teasing me. I suppose the people of the house gave them to you!"

"How much I should like to have a motor-car," she said suddenly.

"Why not?" he demanded. "Why shouldn't you have a motor-car? I often wonder I've never gone in for one before now. Bridget, there are few things you shan't have when once you're my wife."

She leaned back in her chair, biting her nether lip, and every now and then glancing reflectively at the colonel, as if in hesitation.

"Such a delightful ride!" she cried a few minutes later.

"Eh—what—when?" he said.

"This morning, of course. Jimmy took me by surprise. He called for me shortly after eleven. I couldn't resist going. We went through some of the loveliest Surrey villages."

"What about lunch?" asked Colonel Faversham, with difficulty bottling up his wrath.

"Oh, we stopped at the sweetest little inn that seemed to be miles away from everywhere and everybody. Of course, we hadn't much time to spare."

That was one consolation, and Bridget's candour was another; nevertheless. Colonel Faversham found his Sunday afternoon quite spoilt, and finally left Golfney Place in a humour to make things a little uncomfortable for any one who crossed his path. He was beginning to notice that Mark Driver came to Grandison Square somewhat often, and seeing Carrissima wearing her hat and jacket a few afternoons later the colonel asked where she was going.

"I am expecting Phoebe," she answered. "Mark has taken some rooms in Weymouth Street and we are invited to inspect them to-day."

Colonel Faversham chuckled as she left the house. Nothing could suit his purpose better! She would never, he felt certain, be content to stay at home under the new Mrs. Faversham's regime, and her own marriage would prove an admirable solution of the difficulty.

Mark Driver was just now in his element. His friend, Doctor Harefield, had broken down in health, his only hope being to relinquish an incipient practice and spend a considerable time in a more favourable climate. Mark had taken over Harefield's three rooms: a dining-room on the ground floor, intended to serve also as a patients' waiting-room; a small consulting-room in its rear, and a bedroom at the top of the house. The furniture, such as it was, had been bought at a valuation, not that Mark had intended to make such an outlay at the moment, but it was understood that the goodwill of Harefield's practice was to be thrown in. It was, in fact, far too small to be sold separately, although it might form the nucleus of the much larger one which his successor fully intended to build up.

Mark, having provided an elaborate tea and a profusion of flowers, looked forward with considerable zest to Carrissima's visit with Phoebe as her chaperon, and yet as he stood at the window awaiting her arrival he wondered whether he had not perhaps been a little too precipitate over his recent investment.

His outlook had been steadily changing since the day after his return from Paris. Although it appeared as if love had come upon him suddenly, he knew it had done nothing of the kind. While it seemed to have blossomed in a day, he understood that it had been developing for many months, perhaps, even for many years.

He could not feel absolutely confident. Carrissima had builded better than she knew. So cleverly had she dissembled her emotions that there were times when Mark feared lest he should take her completely by surprise; but in any case the declaration must not much longer be postponed. If his desires were gratified, it appeared obvious that these three rooms would prove inadequate, while, incongruously enough, it was the fact that he had made some kind of beginning by taking them, which justified his increasingly impatient aspirations.

Carrissima, arriving with Phoebe at half-past four, was prepared to admire everything. She was taken first to the small consulting-room, and shown various kinds of apparatus for the administration of ether, chloroform and gas, then to the waiting-room, where Phoebe poured out tea. Mrs. Lawrence Faversham, for her part, was more critical. She insisted that Mark had paid more than the furniture was worth. Much of it was fit only for the dusthole! The curtains, for instance, were falling to pieces, and in any case he positively was bound to invest in a new carpet.

"Look at the darns!" she cried. "It must have served for generation after generation of physicians. It is enough to put any patient off! Whatever you do without, you really must have a new carpet."

"Don't you think I could rub along with the old one for the present?" asked Mark, turning to Carrissima, who, however, felt she must agree with her sister-in-law.

"Such a fuss about seven or eight guineas," said Phoebe. "If you won't buy one I shall have to make you a present."

"Well, then," exclaimed Mark suddenly, "suppose you and Carrissima help me choose it. I am a perfect idiot at that sort of thing. Where shall we go?"

"You would never ask such a question," said Carrissima, looking wonderfully happy as she sat holding her cup and saucer, "if you had any real feeling for the Art of Shopping. We will go everywhere. The first thing is to land yourself in the neighbourhood—then you plunge. The idea of making up your mind where to buy a thing before you start. That's not the way. Do it thoroughly and see all that is to be seen."

"When shall we go," asked Mark, "since I mustn't ask where?"

"Any afternoon you like to name next week!"

"It is evidently going to be a long job," said Mark. "Suppose we say Monday afternoon. I will call for Phoebe at three in a taxi, then we will make for Grandison Square."

Carrissima left Weymouth Street in the highest spirits, and at last began to wonder whether her long patience was by way of being rewarded. When Monday arrived she actually put on her hat—her most becoming hat—before the appointed time, and as she sat waiting for Mark and Phoebe Colonel Faversham looked into the dining-room.

"Oh, ah, Carrissima!" he said; "it occurs to me that you haven't seen much of Bridget lately. I should like you to go to Golfney Place. You've nothing in the world to do. You look idle enough sitting there! Suppose you go this afternoon!"

"I am expecting Mark," answered Carrissima.

"Mark again!"

"And Phoebe," said Carrissima.

"Off on the spree—the three of you?"

"Mark," Carrissima explained, "asked us to help him choose a—a carpet——"

"Devilish thoughtful of him," said the colonel in his most amiable and significant tone.

"For his patients' waiting-room!"

"Well, if you get one to match your cheeks," was the answer, "it will be a nice cheerful colour for them. It strikes me you're seeing a good deal of the fellow."

"I always have done," said Carrissima, devoutly wishing he would arrive to release her.

"Be candid now!" cried the colonel. "Be honest. I like honesty. Anyhow, you can't deceive me. Carrissima, I'll tell you one thing. There's nothing on this earth would give me greater gratification, nothing!"

She durst not even yet allow her hopes to run away with her, and while she was wondering whether there would be time to go upstairs and powder her face or whether, after all, the remedy might not be worse than the disease, she heard the street door bell ring.

"I will go to Golfney Place to-morrow, if you like," she said, with a momentary sense of something resembling sympathy for her father. Because, if what she was constantly hearing from Sybil were true, it seemed extremely probable that Colonel Faversham was doomed to disappointment. According to Sybil, Jimmy went to see Bridget day after day, and granting that she was determined upon escape from her pecuniary troubles by a marriage of some kind, surely she would choose Jimmy in preference to the colonel, if only for the fact that he was much more wealthy. So that Colonel Faversham were spared Carrissima did not feel disposed to judge Bridget too severely; disapproving of her manoeuvres, indeed, but having enough to do in the management of her own affairs.

"Well, well, go to-morrow," said her father. "I'll answer for it she will be pleased to see you. Take her a few flowers! Ah!" Colonel Faversham added, as the door opened, "here's Mark!"

"Where is Phoebe?" asked Carrissima, as she offered her hand.

"An awful bore," answered Mark. "Victor has a bit of a cold; anyhow I couldn't persuade his devoted mother to desert him this afternoon."

"I suppose," said Carrissima, hoping that she was not betraying her disappointment, "we must wait for another day."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Colonel Faversham. "Why shouldn't you keep to your arrangement? What is to hinder it, I should like to know."

"Do you mind, Carrissima?" asked Mark, gazing eagerly into her face.

"Not at all," she said, and a few minutes later Colonel Faversham stood on the doorstep, looking after them with obvious approval, as they were driven away from the house in a taxi-cab.



CHAPTER XVI

BUYING A CARPET—AND AFTER

Mark and Carrissima had not gone far on their way together before it became evident that they were not absolutely in harmony. His object was primarily to purchase a carpet for his dining-room as quickly as might be; while hers was to visit as many shops as possible and, in fact, thoroughly to enjoy the afternoon.

"Where shall we go first?" he suggested outside the door of Number 13, Grandison Square.

"Let me see!" she cried. "Tottenham Court Road will be the best."

So Mark directed the chauffeur accordingly, and, on getting out of the taxi-cab, Carrissima ominously suggested that it should be dismissed. During the somewhat lengthy process which now began, she was not without moments of pleasurable embarrassment. No doubt the various frock-coated salesmen, who patiently displayed their wares, desired to do precisely the correct thing, but there appeared to exist a considerable difference of opinion concerning Carrissima's status.

Some addressed her as "Miss," some as "Madame," but all agreed that she was either recently married to Mark Driver or on the point of becoming his wife. At first he enjoyed entering the huge warehouses by her side, standing by while she (obviously taking command of the expedition) expressed her wish to "see some carpets." He was amused to hear her discuss the nature of carpets in general; also at her manner of resisting every effort of persuasion, and finally walking to the door. When, however, several shops had been fruitlessly visited and enough carpets inspected to furnish a large, modern hotel, Mark began to feel weary.

"This is uncommonly hard work," he suggested. "I vote we have some tea as an entr'acte."

"Oh, very well, if you're tired already," said Carrissima, "we will go to Prince's."

"Can't we find a shop about here?" urged Mark.

"It won't take us half-an-hour in a taxi," she insisted, and a few minutes later they were on their way.

"After we have fortified ourselves," said Mark, "perhaps we shall find it possible to make up our minds."

When they reached the restaurant in Piccadilly, Carrissima admitted that she felt glad to sit down.

"Now, don't you think," suggested Mark, after she had drunk two cups of China tea and sampled the cakes, "we might begin serious business at the next place."

"If you're really sick of it," she answered, "we may as well go back to the beginning, though I wanted to visit one or two places about here."

"O Lord!" exclaimed Mark.

"You see," she replied, "I really made up my mind at once. We haven't seen anything so good for the price as that bronze and black Childema rug at Mabred's."

"Then we have simply wasted the whole afternoon!"

"It isn't very nice of you to say that," cried Carrissima, rising from her chair, with a laugh. They were soon on their way back to the first warehouse they had visited, and the bronze and black carpet having been after some trouble identified, Mark drew a cheque to pay the bill.

On going out to the street again, he was on the point of hailing another taxi-cab, when Carrissima proposed walking at least a part of the way.

"Carrissima," he said, gazing down into her eyes, a few minutes later, "what is the colour?"

"Oh well," she replied, "there are ever so many blended together, you know."

"I thought there must be two," he admitted.

"Of course," she said, "the general effect is bronze and black."

"Blue or grey?" murmured Mark, as she looked up again.

"Have many carpets made you mad?" she demanded. "I don't understand what you are talking about!"

"I was wondering about the colour of your eyes. I can't quite make up my mind about them," he continued. "At one moment they look grey, at another blue."

"Surely," answered Carrissima, quite unwontedly happy, "you have known me long enough to feel no doubt."

"It is possible," said Mark, "that I have known you too long."

"Oh, thank you," she exclaimed. "So custom stales any variety they possess."

"Not at all," he urged. "What I meant was that familiarity, as the copybooks say, may breed a kind of—well, scarcely contempt——"

"Mark," said Carrissima, "the more you say the worse you will make it. I really think you had better be quiet. How long is it," she asked, as they walked towards Weymouth Street on the way to Grandison Square, "since you saw Bridget?"

"Not since the day after my return from Paris," he replied. "I have not been near Golfney Place. Nor," he added, "have I any intention of going. To all intents and purposes, Bridget has dropped out of my life."

"Any one would imagine," said Carrissima, "that she had done something to annoy you."

"Oh dear, no," was the answer. "I am simply indifferent." Before she had time to explain that she had promised to go to Golfney Place the following afternoon, he added, "By the bye, your fears have not been realized so far. I am immensely glad of that."

"Ah, yes," said Carrissima; "after Bridget's curious confidences, I suppose you expected something—something horrid to occur quite soon!"

"We need not rake up the past," cried Mark, who would have preferred to avoid Bridget's name, which indeed had not been mentioned between them during the last few weeks.

"For that matter," she said, "my anxiety is practically a thing of the past."

"Is Colonel Faversham cooling off?"

"Not in the least. It is difficult not to feel rather sorry for him. He goes day after day—but then a fresh act has begun. Jimmy has appeared on the scene."

"Jimmy!" cried Mark in unfeigned surprise.

"He met her at our house some time ago," Carrissima explained. "It was really quite entertaining. Those two seemed to draw together on the instant, as if one were the magnet and the other the needle. Besides, I have the advantage of Sybil's confidences. Poor Sybil! I can assure you she is in the most dreadful state of mind."

"But do you imagine that Jimmy means business?" demanded Mark.

"According to Sybil, he is merely biding his time: waiting until a sufficient number of weeks have passed to enable him to come to the point with something like decency."

"If that's really the case," said Mark, "I can only say I am immensely pleased!"

"So am I," answered Carrissima, with quiet fervour.

"I would have done a great deal, if it had been possible," Mark continued, "to prevent Bridget from marrying Colonel Faversham, if only for your sake; but as to Jimmy, I don't care a rap."

"Neither do I," said Carrissima.

"If he can't take care of himself after all his experiences," Mark insisted, "the Lord knows who can. I consider Jimmy fair game."

They parted at her door, Mark refusing to enter the house, because he had a patient to visit—one of the very few he had taken over from Dr. Harefield. Never had Carrissima spent a more enjoyable or a more thoroughly satisfactory afternoon! It proved an immense consolation to hear that Mark had not seen Bridget, with that one exception, since his return from Paris; whereas his manner of taking the news of Jimmy's entrance on the field could scarcely have been more desirable.

Not only had the afternoon seen the disappearance of her last lingering feeling of jealousy of Bridget Rosser, but it encouraged the growth of sensations which had long been kept back. As a rule, Carrissima enjoyed a serious talk with Mark, but to-day she had been the most delighted by his frivolity. She laughed quietly as she remembered his remarks anent the colour of her eyes, and spent some minutes examining them in her looking-glass.

"You won't forget, Carrissima," said Colonel Faversham at breakfast the next morning. "You won't forget you're going to see Bridget this afternoon. Take a few flowers—roses, if you ask me! She is fond of roses."

She assured her father that she had not forgotten, and eventually set out in excellent spirits; the optimism with which she was disposed to regard the world at large including Miss Rosser. Carrissima made her way to a florist's, and after hovering over various kinds of flowers for ten minutes, at last bought so many pink and yellow roses that she did not like to carry them through the streets. A taxi-cab soon brought her to Golfney Place, and Miller did not keep her long at the street door.

"Is Miss Rosser at home?" she inquired, as she took a firmer grip of the rose stalks, which did not seem to be fastened very securely together.

"Will you walk in, please," said Miller, leading the way up-stairs.

When they reached the first landing, Carrissima was about two yards in the rear. She carried the large bunch of flowers in her left hand as Miller turned the handle and opened the sitting-room door. At the same, moment, she came to a sudden halt, starting so violently that the loosely-fastened roses fell scattering on to the floor.

The sunlight fell into the room, making it much lighter than the landing. Full in the glare, Carrissima was appalled to behold two figures: Mark and Bridget. He, who but yesterday had declared that he had not seen her for some weeks, that he had no wish ever to see her again, was to-day holding her in his arms. Her head was thrown back, her chin invitingly raised; her lips were pressed to his.



CHAPTER XVII

HASTY WORDS

Miller had been too well trained to betray the slightest astonishment at what he must have seen as distinctly as Carrissima.

"Miss Faversham," he imperturbably announced, and on the instant Mark's arms dropped to his side, and Bridget, after a glance which was overflowing with reproach, turned towards the door.

"Where is Miss Faversham?" she asked in an unusually high voice, wondering that she could see no sign of a visitor.

Miller, glancing aside at the landing, saw Carrissima on her knees by the balusters, engaged in picking up the scattered roses. Her back was towards the room, and she wished that her heart would not beat quite so tumultuously.

"Oh, do let me help you!" suggested Bridget, going to her side, and from that instant Carrissima seemed to have only one object in life. Above all things she wished to lead both Bridget and Mark to believe that she had seen nothing out of the common! Unable at present to grasp the complete significance of the revelation which fortunately had been vouchsafed to her, she perceived, at least, that it implied the utter destruction of her own recent hopes. Nothing could be worse than the betrayal of her disillusionment: because obviously she had been the victim of a rather cruel illusion especially since yesterday. Now her savoir faire became her most valuable asset.

"I think I have picked them all up," she said, rising hastily to her feet, with the roses loose in her hands.

"How sweet of you to come!" answered Bridget. "Mark is here, too! What lovely roses," she continued, leading the way into the sitting-room, as Miller stood on the landing.

"I am sorry they are so untidy," said Carrissima, with every appearance of cheerfulness.

"Are they really for me!" cried Bridget, taking the flowers and placing them on the table.

"What a lovely day," said Carrissima, although it was the worst she had ever known. "Have they sent home the carpet, yet?" she added, as Mark offered his hand with some embarrassment. He was certainly the most awkward of the three; the women far surpassing him in finesse.

"Have you been buying a carpet?" asked Bridget, as she laid the flowers on the table. "How interesting! Do, please, tell me all about it?"

"For one of my rooms in Weymouth Street," answered Mark.

"Have you actually taken rooms?" said Bridget. "Too bad not to tell me!"

Carrissima, now prepared to recognize deception everywhere, found it difficult to look cheerful. She had no doubt that Bridget knew all about the rooms, which Mark began rather eagerly to describe. It was obvious, however, that he was impatient to get away, and Carrissima, raising her eyes abruptly, intercepted a curiously entreating glance from him to Bridget, who at once held out her hand.

"Shall you be at home this evening?" he asked, turning to Carrissima the next moment.

Although she would infinitely have preferred to say "no," to avoid seeing him again, indeed, as long as the world lasted, she felt afraid lest she should awaken a suspicion of her enlightenment. It seemed inevitable that she must continue to meet him in the future as she had done in the past, and, perhaps, the sooner the next encounter took place the better!

"Oh yes, I think so," she answered. "Shall I see you?"

"I—I thought of looking you up after dinner," said Mark, and the moment he had left the room Miller, with his usual inscrutable face, brought in the tea. Not for the world would Carrissima cut short her visit, and for another quarter of an hour or more she sat listening to Bridget's inquiries concerning Mark's new quarters and his plans for the future.

"I had no idea that he had left Duffield's Hotel," she said presently. "Mark is a dreadful truant. He never comes near me now! I suppose," she added, "he is a great friend of Jimmy's?"

"They and Lawrence were at school together at Brighton," replied Carrissima, and now she thought she might safely say "good-bye."

Bridget seemed unwilling to release her hand, as they stood together on almost the same spot where Carrissima had seen Miss Rosser in Mark's arms! She looked down at her guest furtively, as if she were unable to make up her mind about something. Perhaps, thought Carrissima, she was wondering whether or not it were desirable to do anything further to remove any possible suspicion! Still, Bridget said nothing unusual, and having once more thanked Carrissima for the roses she insisted on going to see her out of the house.

What a joy it was to breathe the uncontaminated air again! Carrissima walked in the direction of Grandison Square with her mind in a tumult. Her god had fallen! She was far too wildly excited to be capable of anything resembling a sane view of the maddening situation! She longed above all things to reach home, to run up-stairs to her own room, to lock the door, to be away from all mankind.

The pressing question was not whether Mark loved Bridget. That had already been answered. What she wished to make up her mind about was the nature of his "love"—much abused word! If he intended to marry Bridget, why not have said so and have done with it? He had the right to please himself.

His secrecy, his deception, surely signified something base! It was inconceivable that he had not seen her for three weeks—in the face of what Carrissima had witnessed half-an-hour ago! Why had Mark gone out of his way to keep his intercourse with Bridget a secret unless there was something to be ashamed of? Why had he pretended to feel satisfied, even pleased, at the news of her intimacy with Jimmy? Why, above everything, had he recently changed his demeanour towards his oldest friend?

Carrissima must be pictured as approaching Number 13, Grandison Square with such thoughts crowding upon her mind, under the influence of the reaction from her necessary self-control in Bridget's presence. Her head seemed to be on fire, and, always apt to be impulsive, she had never in the course of her vast experience of twenty-two years been so completely carried away as now.

She experienced a deep pang of disappointment on seeing Sybil talking to Knight on the doorstep.

"Oh, I am so very glad not to have missed you!" cried the for once unwelcome visitor. "How extremely fortunate you were not a minute later, because I was just going home."

As a matter of course, without waiting for an invitation, Sybil stepped into the hall and accompanied Carrissima up-stairs.

"My dear," she exclaimed, as the butler shut the drawing-room door, "whatever is the matter? You look as if you had seen something dreadful!"

"What nonsense," said Carrissima. "What can I have seen?"

"I really can't imagine," answered Sybil, with a sigh. "I suppose I feel so terribly worried myself that I fancy everybody else has something to bother about. Still, you certainly do look as I have never seen you before."

"The sun is quite hot," murmured Carrissima, sitting down by one of the windows.

"Although I always feel it I couldn't stay indoors," said Sybil. "Jimmy is more and more enthusiastic every day. He won't hear a word of advice! I have begged and implored him to give Miss Rosser up, but he insists that he is only going to wait until the end of this week. To think of Jimmy's throwing himself away!"

"Oh," cried Carrissima, rising impetuously to her feet, "you need not feel in the least alarmed!"

"But, my dear, how can I help it?" said Sybil. "I never close my eyes until past one o'clock, and when I wake it is impossible to get to sleep again."

"Well, you may rest in peace for the future," answered Carrissima, throwing out her arms excitedly. "Sybil, we have both been making the most dreadful idiots of ourselves!"

"You forget," suggested Sybil, with a perplexed expression, "that Jimmy has actually told me he means to marry the woman!"

"It takes two to make a marriage," said Carrissima.

"You can't seriously imagine that Miss Rosser would refuse him!" cried Sybil.

"It isn't a question of imagination," retorted Carrissima, walking restlessly about the room. "There are the stubborn facts. I have just come from Golfney Place!"

"Surely she didn't tell you——"

"There was no need for words," said Carrissima. "I can't disbelieve the evidence of my own eyes, however incredible it may appear."

"Carrissima!" exclaimed Sybil, "you are making me so painfully curious. Do, please, tell me what you saw."

"I saw Mark holding Bridget in his arms!"

"My dear Carrissima!"

"I saw him kissing her—oh, how disgusting it is!" said Carrissima, with a shudder.

"How shockingly embarrassed you must all have felt," suggested Sybil.

"Oh dear, no," was the answer. "Neither of them had the slightest idea they were seen. We all behaved beautifully—beautifully."

"Well, I must say this is the best news I have heard for a long time," said Sybil, looking wonderfully relieved.

"The—the best news!" returned Carrissima, pressing her hands to her bosom.

"Of course, if she is going to marry Mark——"

"I don't believe she is!" said Carrissima.

"But, my dear, if you actually saw them!"

"I don't believe it," was the answer. "If he means to marry her what is the object of all this secrecy? Mark told me only yesterday that he had not seen her for weeks. I shall never know whom to believe again as long as I live. While he pretended Bridget was nothing to him, this—this hateful business has been going on in the background. I have been afraid she would marry my father; you have dreaded that she would marry Jimmy, and yet this afternoon I actually saw—oh, it is abominable. There is only one explanation. There must have been some—some understanding between them from the first."

"I always told Jimmy she might not be respectable," said Sybil.

Hearing that on another's lips, the slightest suggestion of which already Carrissima regretted should have passed her own, cooler judgment began to return. In her wrath she had felt prepared to think anything that was vile of both Mark and Bridget; but only for the moment. Already she repented that she had opened her heart to Sybil.

"Oh, I don't want to go too far," she exclaimed. "Of course there must be some explanation! You quite understand, Sybil! You are not to repeat a single word which I have said to any one."

"My dear, I ought to tell Jimmy before it's too late. I am sure only one conclusion is possible.

"Jimmy ought to be able to look after himself," urged Carrissima.

"Ah, there are very few men who can do that where a pretty woman is concerned," said Sybil.

"Anyhow," returned Carrissima, "I shall not let you go until you have given me your solemn promise. You are not to breathe a word—not a syllable."

"Of course if you insist——"

"I do," said Carrissima. "I was idiotic to speak about the odious thing. You promise you will never repeat a word to any living being!"

"Very well, my dear," was the docile answer, and then Carrissima breathed more freely.



CHAPTER XVIII

HOW IT HAPPENED

Mark Driver, on returning from the carpet-purchasing expedition, spent the evening alone in his Weymouth Street rooms. He had not the least intention to go near Golfney Place the following day, and every word he had spoken during the walk home with Carrissima was precisely true.

He believed he could never live happily without her! As he sat smoking his pipe that night, he smiled to remember Carrissima at the numerous warehouses she had visited, and his thoughts wandered back over the many years of their friendship.

Fortunate is the man who may count upon one sympathetic listener, too deeply interested in his most ordinary experiences for boredom; prepared to take his side (with or without justification) against the world. So it had always been with Carrissima. Of any scheme, any opinion, any ambition of his, she invariably tended to think the best. If ever he accomplished anything more meritorious than usual, she was always the first to be told; and when he happened to make a mistake, she would be certain to make light of it.

At nine o'clock on Tuesday morning Mark had an appointment round the corner in Beaumont Street. Mr. Randolph Messeter had a serious operation to perform at a nursing home, and Mark was to administer the anaesthetic. All had gone well; he had returned to Weymouth Street, and was in the act of putting away his apparatus, when the telephone bell rang.

He was wanted immediately by Lady Scones, in Burnham Crescent, S.W. Sir Wilford Scones had been one of Doctor Harefield's most lucrative patients, and naturally Mark felt gratified by the summons. A rapid examination showed that the patient was seriously ill, and having telephoned for a trained nurse and written a prescription, Mark left the house, with a promise to come again during the afternoon.

On his way home after this second visit at about four o'clock, he walked past the end of Golfney Place, and, a few yards farther on, saw a motor-car in which was seated Bridget. As he lifted his hat, she called to the chauffeur to stop, and seeing she was bent on getting out, Mark could scarcely do less than open the door.

"What a stranger!" she cried, holding out her hand. "Weeks and weeks since you came to see me! Anyhow, you must come now."

"Sorry," said Mark, "but, upon my word, I haven't much time to spare——"

"You won't want much," she insisted. "It's no use, Mark! You've got to be nice and reasonable, and you must just come in."

Taking out her purse, she paid the chauffeur—in gold, as Mark could not help seeing, and, judging by the expression of the man's face, adding an unusually liberal tip. Without any more excuses, Mark accompanied her along the secluded street, and, on reaching Number 5, Bridget admitted him with her latch-key.

"Where do you think I have been?" she asked, throwing off her cloak as soon as she entered the sitting-room.

"I don't see how I can guess without something more to guide me," said Mark, as she went to the looking-glass, drew some monstrous-headed pins from her hat, and began to arrange her hair, patting it here, pulling it there, while Mark admired its quantity and colour.

"Oh, how the wind has made my cheeks burn," she cried, pressing her palms against them. "You know how one pines for woods and pastures at this time of year!" she continued. "A kind of nostalgia! Directly after breakfast I sent Miller for a motor-car from the garage in the next street, and I went to Crowborough."

"Alone?" asked Mark.

"Didn't you see I was alone? That was the idea, you know. I hadn't been inside the dear old house since father and I left it four years ago. There was a board up. It was to be let again, so I rang the bell and went all over it—round the garden, then to the churchyard. I suppose you scarcely remember my mother, Mark?"

"Very indistinctly," he answered, seeing that she was in a somewhat emotional mood.

But, to tell the truth, he was inclined to distrust appearances. During his previous visit to Golfney Place, she had betrayed a certain amount of feeling, with the deliberate object, he felt convinced, of awakening his sympathy. On that occasion Bridget had told him about her pecuniary difficulties, in order to induce him to anticipate Colonel Faversham. At present he was wondering whether or not she had a similar end in view.

"My mother," she said, drawing nearer, "was the best and sweetest woman in the world. You are a clever man. Tell me how she came to have such a daughter."

Surely the late Mrs. Rosser could scarcely have had a more seductive child! At the moment, she stood almost touching Mark, her chin raised, gazing up into his eyes. The sunlight fell upon her hair, and he wished he could refrain from noticing her dimple.

"What is the matter with her?" he asked.

"Don't pretend you are so dense," said Bridget, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I gave myself away the last time you were here, and of course that's the reason you have never been near me since!"

She was almost resting against him, either carried away by her emotion or deliberately trying to lead him on. Mark felt very little doubt as to her purpose; he was convinced that she was bringing all her batteries to bear upon him, and it is a painful task to chronicle a good man's fall!

On the deplorable impulse of the moment, he put an arm around Bridget and kissed her lips. Then two alarming things happened. As the door opened and Miller announced "Miss Faversham," Mark saw from the shocked, indignant expression on Bridget's face, that on the present occasion, at least, he had misinterpreted her intention.

There seemed to be something ironic in the circumstances. Never had Mark felt more enthusiastic in his devotion to Carrissima than he had done when he entered Number 5, Golfney Place, this afternoon. Hitherto when Bridget had in truth been tempting him, he had succeeded in standing firm; but to-day, when she had been making a sincere appeal for his help and sympathy, he had lost his self-control.

But for the fact that Bridget was unwilling, he might not have taken a very serious view of his own behaviour, especially as it seemed obvious that Carrissima had appeared on the scene a moment too late to witness it. Even if she had not dropped her roses on the landing, her demeanour must have sufficed to lull him into a false sense of security. Nevertheless, he felt extremely uncomfortable until he left the room; and indeed he perceived that even his presence at the house might, after yesterday's protestations, require some explanation. Hence his suggestion to go to Grandison Square after dinner the same evening.

He wished devoutly that he had not made a fool of himself, without considering that he had been guilty of anything worse than an act of folly. It was not as if he were actually engaged to Carrissima, although he was now in a mood to regret that he had ever bestowed a thought on any other woman since his birth.

Mark had arranged to see Sir Wilford Scones again before night, and his intention was to make his way from Burnham Crescent to Grandison Square; but the question now arose whether he ought not to call upon Bridget and make some sort of amende for the incident of the afternoon.

"Oh, Mark!" she exclaimed, the moment he entered her presence, and before he found time to speak; "how could you do it! You, of all men! You always seemed just the one to be trusted. What can there be about me that you should imagine I was that—that sort of woman?"