ied Mark,
while Carrissima sat with her eyes averted, hoping that nobody would
suspect her actual object.

But she had known of his intention to depart for Paris the next
morning, to spend a month with his old friend Wentworth before finally
settling down in London. If she had waited for Colonel Faversham's
return to Grandison Square she must, obviously, have missed Mark Driver
again. One of the chief purposes of Carrissima's life seemed to be the
disguise of motives, concerning which she scarcely knew whether she
ought to feel ashamed or not.

"Well," suggested Lawrence, "we haven't heard why you didn't turn up in
time."

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting," said Mark, at last shaking hands
with his brother-in-law.

"Only half-an-hour!"

"You see," Mark explained, "I dined at Belloni's."

"Good gracious!" answered Lawrence, with evident annoyance, "if you
could go to Belloni's, why in the world couldn't you come here as you
promised?"

"I meant to come," said Mark, looking somewhat embarrassed, as he
glanced at Carrissima. "You see, I went to Duffield's Hotel in Craven
Street direct from the station. I thought I would just potter about
and smoke a pipe or so till it was time to change."

"But you haven't changed!" exclaimed Lawrence, with a disapproving
frown at Mark's blue serge jacket. It no doubt suited his long,
athletic figure admirably; but, nevertheless, was very much out of
place in present circumstances.

"No, of course not," said Mark. "The fact is I altered my mind.
Instead of hanging about at Duffield's, I thought I would go to Golfney
Place."

"What on earth for?"

"Oh well, to see Bridget, you know," answered Mark, and once more he
glanced at Carrissima, whose eyes met his own.

CHAPTER II

MARK EXPLAINS

"Who is Bridget?" asked Phoebe, whereupon Mark swung round to face her,
his hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets, his face slightly flushed.

"Miss Rosser," he said. "You remember Bridget Rosser, Phoebe! When we
stayed at Crowborough four years ago."

"Five," suggested Lawrence, with his usual meticulous exactitude.

"You were not there," said Mark.

"But still," answered Lawrence, "I remember going down with father to
look at the house before he made up his mind to take it."

"I recollect Bridget perfectly well," said Carrissima in her most
cheerful tone. "Her father was David Rosser the novelist."

"He died in Paris about ten months ago," explained Mark, "an