"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.
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 ofamendefor 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?"
"What was there about me, rather?" said Mark, looking rather shamefaced. "Bridget, I can only tell you I am immensely sorry."
"Suppose," she cried, "that Carrissima had seen you! Suppose she had not dropped her flowers! What would be the use of saying you were sorry then? She has always been horridly jealous——"
"Carrissima jealous!"
"From the first time she came here! I suppose it began that evening you took me to Belloni's and kept her waiting for dinner. She would never have forgiven you. Mark, you have had a very, very narrow escape, and I am not certain you deserve to get off so easily. Because, don't you see, your treatment of me was the worse on account of your love for her."
He stood with a dejected expression on his face, and nothing more was said, for a few moments; then Bridget lightly rested a hand on his sleeve.
"Ah, well," she said, "I don't want to pile up the agony. Besides," she added, with an obvious effort, "I must be honest. I—I know I have given you reason to think meanly of me—vilely! But, don't you see, Mark, I—I have done with all that. I was never so anxious to make the best of myself. Not that it can conceivably matter."
Mark left the house in a chastened mood, wondering as he walked towards Burnham Crescent whether it were possible that she had fallen sincerely in love with Jimmy Clynesworth.
Was it likely that, after all her alarums and excursions, she had found a resting-place at last; that Carrissima was right when she insisted that Jimmy had ousted Colonel Faversham, but wrong when she imagined that Bridget's inducement was his larger income?
"I'm sorry to be so late," said Mark, when at last he enteredCarrissima's presence that evening.
"Oh, it isn't too late," she answered. "My father is out, and I am thankful for any one to relieve the monotony of things."
"The fact is," Mark explained, "I have a serious case near here. I was kept rather longer than I anticipated. My third visit to-day!"
"You must be making a rapid fortune," she cried gaily.
"Anyhow, it's a beginning," he said, adding, after a momentary pause, "I thought you might be surprised to see me at Golfney Place this afternoon."
"No, I don't know that I was," returned Carrissima. "Just a wee bit, perhaps; but then, you know, one ought never to feel astonished to meet a doctor anywhere."
"Oh well, Bridget's not a patient," said Mark, with a smile. "I was on my way home from Sir Wilford's, when I saw her in a motor-car just by the corner of Golfney Place. She insisted that I should go in with her, and because of her importunity I consented."
"Has the carpet arrived yet?" asked Carrissima.
"It was laid while I was out this afternoon," was the answer.
"Well, I hope you approve of my taste."
"It looks first-rate," said Mark. "The room is transformed. I have some idea of putting up my fees on the strength of it. I should like you to come and have a look," he added.
"Why, of course," returned Carrissima. "I must ask Phoebe to bring me one afternoon, and you shall give us some more of those delicious cakes."
Mark Driver was certainly living in a fool's paradise that evening. He did not imagine for an instant that he should ever hear of the escapade again. The incident was ended. Carrissima remained in blissful ignorance, and he had made his peace with Bridget.
Bliss, however, was far from Carrissima that night. For one thing, she blamed herself severely for having opened her heart to Sybil Clynesworth. Although it seemed obvious that Mark had been playing an equivocal game, there could, Carrissima felt certain on reflection, be no justification for the innuendoes which she had allowed herself to make. The truth was that even now she scarcely knew what she had said in her wrath. She remembered that odious ideas had flashed unbidden across her mind—ideas which now appeared as unworthy of herself as of Mark.
Still, after making every allowance, her disillusioning remained complete. How could a man feel an interest in the precise colour of her own eyes one day and kiss the lips of another woman the next? She knew that her wish had been father to the thought, and she felt exceedingly bitter against Miss Bridget Rosser, who appeared still to have three men dangling at her heels.
One of these was becoming impatient. Colonel Faversham had reached the end of his tether. He realized that his authority over Bridget would not bear a great strain, and accordingly on Wednesday morning he made his way to Donaldson's, where he purchased a handsome and expensive jewelled waist-belt, such as she had admired on an actress when he took her to the play a few evenings ago. Armed with this peace-offering, Colonel Faversham reached Golfney Place at eleven o'clock on the morning after Mark Driver's unfortunate visit.
"Oh dear!" cried Bridget, as she clasped the belt round her waist, "how kind you always are to me!"
"I don't see why you should sigh about that," answered Colonel Faversham. "I mean to be kind to you as long as I live, and I hope that will be a good many years yet. But there's nothing like tit for tat, you know, Bridget. Come, now, my darling, I want you to be kind to me."
"If only you could see into my mind you would say I was a perfect little wretch!" she murmured, taking off the belt and laying it on a table.
"Just as well we can't do that sort of thing," said the colonel. "I never care for women who are too good for human nature's daily food. You don't mind if I light a cigar," he added, sitting down with caution.
"Oh dear, no," she returned, and going to the mantelshelf, brought a box of matches, one of which she struck, holding it to the end of his cigar. When he had lighted it, he captured her wrist with elephantine playfulness.
"Bridget," he exclaimed, as she laughingly freed herself, "suppose we cut the cackle and get to the bosses. I think I've been patient long enough."
"I have never imagined that patience was your strong point," saidBridget.
"Well, well, too much of it makes a man look like a fool," was the answer, "and besides, to tell the truth, I'm devilish impatient. Who could look at you and be anything else? What's the use of wasting time in this way? I could fix things up in a week, and never a word to Lawrence or Carrissima till we're safely out of England. Come now, when shall we get married?"
For a few moments, while Colonel Faversham sat smoking, she did not answer. She was standing a few yards away, with her fingers interlocked. Her breath came and went quickly and her face had lost all its colour.
"It's no use," she suddenly exclaimed. "I can't tell you."
"Why not—why not?" demanded Colonel Faversham. "Good gracious, my little pet isn't frightened of me!"
"I think I am," she faltered.
"What is there to be frightened about?"
"You have always been so kind—I am going to treat you so horridly——"
"No, you're not," he said. "You're going to make me the dearest little wife in the world. Come, now, Bridget?"
He was too fatuously enamoured to dream that she could be struggling for strength to dismiss him. Her obvious timidity was ascribed to natural maidenly bashfulness, which made her appear wonderfully enticing. She clasped her hands more tightly together and turned her head this way and that, glancing at the windows, at the door, as if she longed to run away and make her escape from the man whose chief desire in life was to keep her always by his side.
He saw her moisten her lips and raise her hands for a moment to her forehead.
"I can't say it," she cried. "I suppose I am too great a coward.You—you shall know to-morrow!"
"You will fix the day for certain!" said Colonel Faversham eagerly.
"You shall know to-morrow," she repeated.
"Now, that," he exclaimed, rising from his chair, "is a promise!"
"A solemn promise," murmured Bridget; and a few minutes later Colonel Faversham went away, strutting along the street with his chest puffed out, walking on air, and certainly never doubting that Bridget's promise would be fulfilled. At the end of Golfney Place his expression changed as he saw Jimmy Clynesworth—on his way to No. 5, no doubt! Well, let Jimmy make the most of his opportunities. He would not find very many more! Another week or two and Bridget would be whisked away from England to return as Mrs. Faversham.
"Some one," remarked Jimmy, as he entered Bridget's sitting-room, "has been smoking a decent cigar!"
"Colonel Faversham," replied Bridget.
"His visit doesn't seem to have bucked you up," said Jimmy, with his eyes on her face, as he held her hand. "I despise the man who can't interfere with what doesn't concern him on occasion! I have been wondering lately whether you can possibly be in any kind of hobble. Bridget, I should immensely like to help you out."
This was intended to be the prelude to a formal proposal of marriage. After keeping silence with difficulty so long, Jimmy considered that the time had at last come when he might put his fate to the touch. Nor was he tormented by any very serious doubts concerning her surrender. Jimmy had seen enough to feel blissfully satisfied that Bridget loved him, and for his own part, he had never met any other woman whom he desired to marry.
"Jimmy!" she murmured, looking up at him wistfully.
"Bridget," he said, in an equally low and solemn voice.
"You see—the fact is—I am engaged to Colonel Faversham!"
Although he suddenly released her hand, she still remained in the same attitude, watching his face as if waiting to see the effect of her announcement.
He drew in a deep breath and thrust his clenched hands into his jacket pockets.
"Then I ought to felicitate you," said Jimmy. "Why," he asked quietly, "didn't you give me the opportunity earlier?"
"Colonel Faversham didn't wish anybody to be told," she answered.
"You are consequently not gratifying him by telling me now!"
"No," said Bridget.
"Why have you told me?" he demanded.
"Oh well," she replied, "I felt that I wanted you to know—that is the only reason."
"Should you mind telling me something else?" said Jimmy.
"Anything—anything!"
"Did the—the auspicious event take place before or since that afternoon we first met in Grandison Square?"
"A few days before."
"I am sorry you kept me in the dark," was the answer.
"So am I," she said.
He took one hand out of his pocket and ran his fingers through his hair.
"You see," he remarked, "I have known the colonel nearly my whole life.Well, good-bye," he added, holding out his hand.
"Oh—good-bye," said Bridget, and Jimmy was on his way down-stairs the next moment, out of the house and losing no time in finding his way back to Upper Grosvenor Street. Going at once to the smoking-room, he sat down, and leaning forward, covered his face with his hands. In this dejected attitude Sybil found him a few minutes later. As he had obviously not observed her entrance, she went to his side, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"My dearest Jimmy," she explained, "whatever is the matter?"
Rising from his chair, he walked to the mantelshelf, took a cigarette from a box and lighted it.
"I may as well get it off my chest," he said. "I went to ask Bridget to marry me."
"Oh—Jimmy!" was the reproachful answer.
"You needn't bother yourself," he explained. "She took the wind out of my sails by the announcement that she was affianced to old Faversham before I saw her face."
"To Colonel Faversham!" cried Sybil. "Poor Carrissima!"
Sybil, it is true, had too much experience to be actually astonished at such enormity, but nevertheless she was deeply shocked. Why, Miss Rosser was engaged to be married to the colonel at the time when she had been seen in Mark Driver's arms.
"Understand," said Jimmy, "Carrissima is not to be told. No one knows but the two concerned and myself. I was never so sorely tempted in my life."
"Tempted!" exclaimed Sybil.
"To play the part of Young Lochinvar, you know. She would have gone with me!" he added excitedly. "She would have gone with me!"
"My dear," returned his sister, "you could surely never dream of acting so dishonourably. Such an old friend as Colonel Faversham, too!"
"Oh yes, I dreamed of it," said Jimmy. "You know they say we're all no better than we should be in our dreams. My difficulty was that I woke too soon!"
"Good-morning, Carrissima!" said Colonel Faversham on Thursday morning, rubbing his palms briskly together as he entered the dining-room. "It looks as if there's going to be a change in the weather. A little rain will do good."
"Will it?" answered Carrissima, perfunctorily.
"What's the matter?" he demanded. "You're not eating anything. Always have a good breakfast. Lay a foundation for the day. Look at me! When my appetite fails, I shall begin to think it's time I gave in."
He made an enormous breakfast, and when at last it ended, took out his cigar-case. Having lighted a cigar, he carried the newspaper to his smoking-room and sat down, only to get up again the next minute. He did not care a scrap about the news! The Socialists might upset the constitution for all Colonel Faversham minded this morning! His thoughts already outran him to Golfney Place, where he fully expected to hear from Bridget's lips that she should be prepared to marry him within a week or a fortnight at the latest.
How enchantingly coy the dear girl had been yesterday! Taking down a Continental Bradshaw from one of the bookshelves, he looked up the route to Milan. She had chosen Rome, Naples and Capri for the honeymoon, and of course she should have her own way! Unable to control his impatience after half-past ten, Colonel Faversham went to his dressing-room, limping up-stairs as no one was looking, and imparted a more militant twirl to his moustache. When he reached the hall again Knight held his thin overcoat and handed his top-hat, gloves and malacca cane.
Seeing a taxi-cab Colonel Faversham hailed it, so that he reached Golfney Place earlier than ever before. As he rang the bell he could scarcely control his muscles. He coughed so violently that one or two people looked back at him in passing. He shifted the position of his hat so often as he waited for Miller to open the door, that he might have been making a series of automatic bows to imaginary acquaintances. He stamped his feet and felt that his necktie was in the middle of his shirt front, and then he rang a second time.
"Good heavens!" he muttered, "why can't the man come! Why can't he let me in!"
Miller opened the door at last, in the act of thrusting one arm into his coat. By the time Colonel Faversham had crossed the threshold the butler had assumed his usual deferential stoop and his manner was as suave as ever.
"Good-morning, Miller," said Colonel Faversham, pacified the instant he obtained admittance. "I am rather early. Miss Rosser?"
"Miss Rosser is not here, colonel," was the astounding answer.
"Not here! Good gracious! What do you mean?"
"Miss Rosser left the house at half-past three yesterday afternoon, colonel."
"Do you mean to tell me she has not returned?" demanded ColonelFaversham.
"No," said Miller.
"But I have an appointment with her this morning!"
"I understand that Miss Rosser is not coming back, colonel," answeredMiller.
Colonel Faversham was ceasing to look entirely bewildered. He grew exceedingly red in the face; his eyes appeared to be starting out of his head. Horrible thoughts occurred to him. He glared at Miller as if he were responsible for Bridget's departure, and with miserable sensations he began to put a new interpretation upon the coyness which he had found so seductive yesterday morning.
"Miss Rosser," said Miller, "left a letter for you."
"Why on earth couldn't you tell me so at once!" demanded ColonelFaversham.
"And a parcel," said Miller.
"Where are they? Where are they?" exclaimed the colonel; and Miller went to the rear of the hall, returning the next moment with a fair-sized, brown-paper parcel in his hand. It obviously contained the crocodile-hide dressing-bag, which had been Bridget's birthday present; the handle, indeed, projected for convenience of transport.
"Would you like to step into the dining-room, colonel?" suggestedMiller, giving him a square envelope.
"Damn the dining-room!" shouted Colonel Faversham, as with trembling fingers he broke the seal, whilst Miller still held the bag. Colonel Faversham did not wait to fix his eye-glass.
"DEAR COLONEL FAVERSHAM" (he read),
"How sorry I am to give you pain, and I know that I am doing so. I cannot possibly marry you, and I have not the courage to say so to your face. Why didn't you understand how hard I tried to tell you this morning—you really might have helped me out! You have always been so very kind. I positively hate to treat you badly. I have put all your presents inside the dressing-bag. Please try to forgive me, although I don't suppose you ever will! If it is any consolation to you, I feel—oh, so miserable!
"Yours sincerely,
Although the contents of the letter were easy enough to master, Colonel Faversham must needs fix his monocle, in order to read it again. "That infernal Jimmy!" he muttered, then folded the sheet of paper and bestowed it in his breast pocket.
"The parcel, colonel," suggested Miller, as he turned towards the door.
For a moment Colonel Faversham stood scowling at the butler and what he held in his hand. His first impulse was to refuse to have anything to do with it; but, after all, its contents were of considerable value. He might, perhaps, leave it at his club, although it could not remain there for ever, and perhaps it would be better to take it at once to Grandison Square and lock it up in the smoking-room cupboard.
At last he put out his hand, and came forth to the doorstep holding the crocodile-hide bag.
"Good-morning, colonel!" said Miller, but although his tone was even more suave and respectful than usual, Colonel Faversham fancied he detected in it something ironic. No doubt the man had formed his own opinion as to what was going on; but, thank goodness, nobody outside Number 5, Golfney Place had the faintest suspicion of his engagement!
He quite understood that this was broken beyond repair. Colonel Faversham knew when he was beaten. He had been treated in the most abominable manner, and he never desired to see Bridget's face again. Unaccustomed to carry a parcel through the streets, he was annoyed inasmuch as he could not see any kind of cab until he drew near to his own house, and unfortunately Carrissima happened to be looking out at the dining-room window.
She could not, however, see his face, and as he had left home in such ebullient spirits a little while ago, she went to meet him in the hall, where her eyes at once fell upon the bag.
"What is that?" she asked brightly. "A present for little Victor?"
"No," exclaimed the colonel, mimicking her voice, "it isn't a present for little Victor! What in the world should I be doing with a present for little Victor at this hour of the day?"
She naturally perceived that something must have occurred seriously to ruffle him, even if he had not slammed the door of the smoking-room so violently behind him. It did not take Carrissima long to draw her own conclusions. It is true she was ignorant of her father's engagement to Bridget, but she had anticipated his deposition by Jimmy Clynesworth, until Mark's conduct had complicated the outlook. On the whole, Carrissima was inclined to think that the climax had been reached this morning; that Colonel Faversham, having gone to Golfney Place, had quarrelled with Bridget, who had insisted on returning such presents as he had from time to time given to her.
While Colonel Faversham remained hidden in his smoking-room, Carrissima's mind was busy with his affairs, until about three-quarters of an hour later she happened to be crossing the hall, and saw Jimmy on the doorstep in conversation with Knight.
"Oh, Jimmy!" she exclaimed, "do come in!"
Without any hesitation he entered the hall, accompanying her up-stairs to the drawing-room.
"I don't know whether you have heard the news," he said, as he shut the door.
"Not a word!" was the answer. "I am positively dying to hear it."
A smile broke over Jimmy's face.
"Bridget has left Golfney Place!" he cried.
"When did she go?" asked Carrissima.
"At half-past three yesterday afternoon."
"Has she sought refuge where she ought to have sought it long ago?"
"Where is that?" demanded Jimmy.
"With her aunts at Sandbay!"
"By the bye," he said, "can you tell me their name?"
"Now—let me see!" answered Carrissima, reflecting for an instant. "Oh yes—Dobson. I feel certain that is right. It sounds quite ordinary, doesn't it?"
Jimmy Clynesworth had gone to bed the previous night, but not to sleep very early, with the fixed determination to stand clear of Bridget for the future. He felt, indeed, too distrustful of himself to re-approach her and yet remain loyal to his old friend Colonel Faversham.
When, however, he went into his own den to smoke an after-breakfast pipe, the first thing his eyes rested upon was a copy of one of David Rosser's novels. It obviously ought to be returned! He knew that Bridget valued her complete collection of her father's works. Of course nothing would have been easier than to send it by his man, or, for that matter, by the parcel post.
But Jimmy determined to take back the book in person; he would not enter the house, he would leave it at the door and just ask Miller how Bridget was this morning! At the back of his mind probably was some subconscious, unrecognized desire to seize any chance of seeing her once more if only for a moment, but on reaching the house he heard a repetition of the story with which Miller had overwhelmed Colonel Faversham.
For the instant Jimmy also was almost overwhelmed, but by vastly different sensations. He had no suspicion that Bridget intended to break off her engagement until the moment when Miller told him of the colonel's recent visit. Then Jimmy reached the truth by a leap. Bridget had gone away to escape from her elderlyfiancé! At the time Jimmy believed that her announcement yesterday morning was prompted by a sense of duty—a little belated, no doubt.
She saw how it was with him, but having already plighted her troth she felt compelled to issue that unexpected warning. Now, however, Jimmy saw her conduct in another light. She had made up her mind to have done with Colonel Faversham at all costs! Lacking the courage to tell him so to his face, she had opened her heart to the man whom she loved and on whose love she counted.
From Bridget's point of view, Jimmy saw that he had failed her at the pinch. Still, she had acted for herself, not, perhaps, in the most desirable manner! Still, she must have made her bid for freedom, and now it came to the point, this seemed to be all that Jimmy cared about. It is true he had spoken to Bridget of his high regard for candour, but even that by no means equalled his regard for herself.
Whatever she had done, and Jimmy perceived that she must have treated Colonel Faversham less than well, this was not the time for criticism. The salient fact was that she had shaken herself free! Such a desirable end appeared to excuse almost any means. Bridget's disappearance did not in the least alarm him. There would be little difficulty in finding her again; the point was that he had become justified in undertaking the search.
Having thanked and tipped Miller, Jimmy set about the quest at once, and determined to take the bull by the horns. He would go to Grandison Square in the first place, see Colonel Faversham, and ascertain beyond a doubt that the coast was clear. Colonel Faversham, too, or Carrissima might perchance be able to suggest some clue to Bridget's hiding-place.
"Is Colonel Faversham at home?" asked Jimmy.
"Do you wish to see him!" said Carrissima.
"Well, yes," was the answer, "I do—rather particularly."
"Because he is not in the very best mood for a visitor," saidCarrissima. "At the present moment he is shut up in his smoking-room.I give you a fair warning, Jimmy!"
"I think I shall have to risk it," he returned.
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Carrissima. "How tremendously curious you make me! Although I'm entirely in the dark, I feel certain that important events are happening. You see, Jimmy, my father is constantly at Golfney Place—so are you! This morning he came home unusually early—actually with a large parcel in his hand. He had a face like ever so many thunder-clouds. Do you think there has been any sort of—of disagreement between Bridget and the colonel?"
"Why, yes," said Jimmy, "I fancy you've hit the mark!"
"I wish you wouldn't be so dreadfully mysterious," she answered. "Now, why can't you tell me what it is all about?"
He could not see his way to gratify her. Bridget had insisted that the engagement had remained a secret at Colonel Faversham's wish, and Jimmy had no wish to make things unpleasant for him at home. He had told Sybil, it was true, but probably he would not even have enlightened his sister if he had taken time for reflection.
"Do you think," asked Jimmy, instead of replying to Carrissima's question, "that Bridget would be likely to go abroad again?"
"Jimmy," she answered seriously, "wherever she may have gone, you will be wise to take my advice."
"What is that?"
"To make no attempt to follow her!"
Jimmy laughed at this, and reminded Carrissima of his wish to speak to Colonel Faversham. Somewhat reluctantly she accompanied him down-stairs again, and opened the door of the smoking-room, taking the precaution to make as much noise as possible with the handle.
Colonel Faversham looked the embodiment of dejection, when at last, followed by Jimmy, she entered his room. He was sitting in an easy-chair, leaning forward with his hands to his head. All his usual exuberance appeared to have left him; he looked quite old and feeble. Seeing Jimmy, he scowled fiercely, making no attempt to rise or to offer his hand.
"Good-morning, colonel," said the visitor cheerfully. "Sorry if I am disturbing you, but I wanted a few words, if you can spare a minute."
"A broad hint for me to go," cried Carrissima, backing towards the door, with the most painful curiosity.
"Well, what is it?" demanded Colonel Faversham, as soon as he was alone with Jimmy.
"I am going to ask you a straight question!" was the answer. "I have heard of your engagement——"
"Who the devil told you?" exclaimed Colonel Faversham, sitting suddenly erect.
"Well, you know," said Jimmy, "I imagine there was only one person who had it in her power to tell me."
"Bridget, you mean?"
"Yes," replied Jimmy.
"When was that?"
"Just after you left her yesterday morning."
Rising from his chair, Colonel Faversham seemed to pull himself together. He blew out his cheeks, put back his shoulders and fixed his eyeglass as if he wished to examine Jimmy more distinctly.
"I should like to know," he said, "what my engagement has to do with you!"
"Nothing in the world," returned Jimmy, "if it still exists. That is all I am anxious to hear—whether it does or not."
Colonel Faversham stood glaring into Jimmy's face. So it was true, as he had suspected, that he had been thrown over for the benefit of this confounded fellow, who had the audacity to catechize him! Well, the battle was to the young! Colonel Faversham set it down to that. He must be growing old, hang it all! and here was Jimmy Clynesworth, whom he had nursed as a small boy, civil enough, as far as that went, but probably laughing in his sleeve, as those who win may.
"Jimmy," said the colonel, with a chastened and rather pathetic air, "I tell you what it is. I've been infernally badly treated. No use to mince matters. I've been jilted, sir. Jilted!"
"I suppose I may gather from that," suggested Jimmy, striving to keep anything resembling elation from his voice, "that, as far as you're concerned, Bridget is free——"
"Free!" cried Colonel Faversham. "Any woman can easily be free who attaches no value to her most solemn vows. Free! Good gracious! How can a man bind such a wench?"
"Thank you," said Jimmy, turning towards the door, "that's all I wanted to hear!"
His position did not appear very enviable, because while he could not tolerate any abuse of Bridget, to tell the truth it was impossible to say a word in her defence.
"One minute—one minute, Jimmy!" cried Colonel Faversham. "The more I think of it, the more extraordinary this visit of yours seems! As a boy you always had plenty of cheek! Between ourselves! You seem to know a good deal. I hope to goodness you haven't blabbed to Carrissima!"
"About your engagement, do you mean?"
"Yes, yes," said the colonel impatiently.
"I haven't said a word. In fact, she has not the remotest idea of anything of the kind."
"Well, that's a blessing," was the answer, and Jimmy went away, getting out of the house without seeing Carrissima again. The moment he reached Upper Grosvenor Street he inquired for Sybil, and being told she was in her own room, mounted the stairs several treads at a time.
"May I come in?" he asked, tapping at her door.
"Whatever is the matter now, Jimmy?" exclaimed Sybil, throwing it open.
"Well, it has been a wonderful morning," he explained. "I have got a free hand. Bridget has thrown old Faversham over."
"My dear," said Sybil, "how extremely barefaced!"
"I have seen him," Jimmy continued. "There is nothing on earth in my way. All I have to do is to find her, and that won't take many days."
While he stood outside Sybil's bedroom door, explaining how he had heard the news of Bridget's departure from Golfney Place, his sister underwent the sorest temptation of her life. Surely no situation could be more tantalizing. If it were not for the solemn promise she had made to Carrissima, how easy it would prove to keep Jimmy from the pursuit which might end in his ruin!
Although he remained so strangely uninfluenced by the knowledge of Bridget's engagement to Colonel Faversham, her simultaneous intrigue with Mark Driver could scarcely fail to bring Jimmy to his senses. For the present, however, Sybil tried to hope that there might be more difficulty in running his quarry to earth than he anticipated. She might indeed be hiding somewhere perplexingly close at hand; and most likely Mark held the clue!
Jimmy lost no time in setting to work in earnest. In the first place, he inserted advertisements in the halfpenny evening papers and such of their morning contemporaries as made a special feature of betting news. These he thought would be most in favour amongst taxi-cab drivers, and, of course, the important thing was to discover the man who had driven "a lady and her luggage from No. 5, Golfney Place" that fateful afternoon.
Not content with this, Jimmy motored to Sandbay, and stopping at a stationer's shop, succeeded in purchasing a local Directory. In this he found the name of "Dobson, the Misses," who lived at No. 8, Downside Road. The house was named "Fairbank." Thither Jimmy drove at once, and few thoroughfares could have had a more sedately retired appearance. A wide, gravelled roadway, smoothly rolled, with red-brick villas all precisely alike on one side, and yellow-brick villas, equally uniform, on the other.
There must have been fewer than the average number of children in the neighbourhood, and these must have been unusually silent and well conducted. Such dogs as there were always went out with a lead, and often wearing neat little home-made coats, with a leather strap instead of a collar.
On almost every gate a metal label was affixed: "No hawkers or street musicians." In the most sedate of the red-brick villas with the neatest front garden, lived the Misses Dobson. If any one ever ventured to speak of them in their hearing as the "Miss Dobsons" he was certain to be corrected. In truth, "The Misses Dobson" seemed to describe them far more accurately.
The difference between their ages was only eighteen months, and casual observers assumed that they were twins. They invariably dressed alike, in a fashion which had become out of date in London several years before. They never went out separately, and in order that the same ideas should penetrate their minds at the same moment, one of the pair read aloud while the other sewed and listened.
Well-to-do in the world, they were exceedingly kind to the poor, and they had never succeeded in grasping Bridget's reasons for refusing to accept their hospitality. This afternoon they were sitting together in their superlatively neat drawing-room, and Miss Dobson was knitting while Miss Frances was reading a novel from the circulating library. In the middle of chapter four they were astonished to hear the unwonted sound of a motor-car, and when the sentence was finished they both rose and walked to the window.
There stood a large red car, with a chauffeur in dark-grey livery with a light-brown fur rug round his knees. Before their astonishment permitted the remark that some one must have stopped at the wrong house, the door opened and the most demure parlour-maid in England stood nervously holding the handle.
"A gentleman in a motor-car," said Selina.
"I think," answered Miss Dobson, "that he must have made a mistake in the number."
"He asked for Miss Dobson," said Selina. "Not knowing the name, I left him in the hall."
"Quite right," returned Miss Frances.
"Name o' Clynesworth," said Selina.
"Perhaps," suggested Miss Dobson, "he wishes to sell something."
"A motor-car!" remarked Miss Frances.
"I suppose we ought to receive him," said her sister, and accordingly Jimmy was conducted to the drawing-room, where he at once began to make an almost abject apology.
"My only excuse," he concluded, "is that I have the honour to call myself a friend of Miss Rosser's."
"Our dearest niece," murmured Miss Dobson.
"You may know," said Jimmy, who had scarcely ever felt quite so nervous in his life, "that Bridget has been living at No. 5, Golfney Place!"
"Extremely unsuitable on all accounts," answered Miss Dobson.
"Extremely," said Miss Frances.
"As she left her rooms the day before yesterday," Jimmy explained, "I thought it possible she might have come to you."
"We sincerely wish she had," said Miss Dobson.
"Sincerely," said Miss Frances.
"You may think it is rather strange that I should be pursuing Bridget in this way," suggested Jimmy.
"We do," said Miss Dobson.
"My object," continued Jimmy, "is to ask her to marry me!"
"Will you kindly take a chair," cried Miss Dobson, and they all looked about as if to make certain there was nothing in the way, and then sat down. "The present," Miss Dobson added, "may not be the most suitable occasion to inquire concerning your eligibility. My niece is a sweet girl."
"I entirely agree with you," said Jimmy.
"A little impulsive, it may be," said Miss Dobson.
"Perhaps, a little," murmured Miss Frances.
"But exceedingly good to her father after our poor sister's death."
"Very, very good," said Miss Frances, and both sisters blinked their eyes as Jimmy rose to say "good-bye." He was, however, not to make his escape just yet. The Misses Dobson were obviously disturbed in mind. They could not tolerate the idea of Bridget's whereabouts remaining unknown, and all Jimmy's coolness and assurance were required to restore them to anything resembling tranquillity.
He left the house with a feeling that the scent of lavender must be still clinging to his clothes, and the next morning found him at Crowborough. There, however, he could obtain no news of Bridget, and now he began to wonder whether it was probable she had gone to Paris, where she had lived with David Rosser during the last years of his life. It was on Monday morning that Sybil saw Jimmy in the act of parting from a stranger at the door.
"Who was your visitor?" she inquired, having waited in the dining-room for the purpose.
"A man named Winchester—a private detective," said Jimmy.
"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Sybil, "how sincerely I wish you would letMiss Rosser go her own way!"
"Haven't I succeeded yet," demanded Jimmy, "in making you understand that her way will always be mine?"
"And yet you know how horridly she treated poor Colonel Faversham, Jimmy. You have always insisted on truth and honesty before anything——"
"Now I only insist," said Jimmy, "that Bridget shall become my wife."
At this Sybil grew reckless.
"Jimmy," she cried, "it is really quite impossible."
"Why?" he demanded.
"My dear, I scarcely like to say the words, but she knew Mark Driver long before she knew you."
"Well, I hope she will see a good deal of old Mark in the future also," answered Jimmy. "You force me to break my word," said Sybil, with considerable emotion. "Carrissima will never forgive me. I am sure she won't. But I really cannot keep silence while you go to destruction. I really can't. I promised I would never breathe a syllable——"
"Would you mind," urged Jimmy, "breathing it quickly!"
"There has been an—an understanding between Miss Rosser and Mark from the very first," said Sybil.
"Oh, you mustn't talk foolishness," returned Jimmy.
"Carrissima saw them——"
"What in the world did she see?"
"She happened to go to Golfney Place unexpectedly the afternoon before Miss Rosser left," Sybil explained. "She saw the girl in—in Mark's arms. Jimmy, he was kissing her; actually kissing her, and all the time she must have been engaged to Colonel Faversham."
"Nonsense," said Jimmy; "I don't believe a word of it."
"Do you imagine that Carrissima could possibly tell me an untruth?" demanded Sybil. "She was half beside herself when I met her, or she would never have said a word."
"Now," suggested Jimmy, "you have hit the explanation. Carrissima was beside herself. Of course," he added, "I shall clear the matter up, but I tell you, to begin with, I don't believe a word of it."
"How Carrissima managed to carry it off," said Sybil, "seems wonderful to me."
"A wonderful story altogether," returned Jimmy.
"Neither Mark nor—nor his companion had the slightest idea they were discovered," said Sybil.
"Oh, then Carrissima didn't tackle the fellow!"
"How could she?" asked Sybil. "You see, she had no actual right to complain! Mark Driver, I dare say, would consider himself free to—to kiss any woman he pleased."
"Anyhow," said Jimmy, with all the assurance in the world, "he didn't kiss Bridget."
"Oh, how can you be so blind!" exclaimed his sister.
"When other people see so much," he answered, "what can be more desirable?"
"Well," said Sybil, with tears in her eyes, "I have told you whatCarrissima saw, and naturally she drew her own conclusions."
"What were they?" asked Jimmy, thrusting his hands deep in his jacket pockets.
"You are bound," Sybil explained, "to take into consideration what had gone before. Only a few hours earlier Mark told Carrissima that he hadn't seen Miss Rosser for some weeks. He said he never wished to see her again. Then in face of that, Carrissima went to Golfney Place, and there was the woman in his arms."
"Well," cried Jimmy, "we shall hear what Mark has to say about it."
"My dear," said Sybil nervously, "I do hope and trust you won't get me into trouble. I should never have uttered a word if it were not for your good."
"Any one would imagine," was the answer, "that I had been wrapped in cotton-wool all my life. I suppose I should have been if you could have managed it. Well, I am off to Weymouth Street at once," added Jimmy.
Carrissima felt compelled to go to Charteris Street. She could not resist the temptation of telling Lawrence this latest news about their father and Bridget, whose departure from Golfney Place made him quite genial.
"The best thing I've heard for a long time," he exclaimed. "Let us hope we've all seen the last of her."
Lawrence found points of interest in the situation. If, as Carrissima insisted, Colonel Faversham had been in the habit of making Bridget frequent presents, and had now received them back, surely matters must have advanced farther than anybody believed. There was something formal about such a restitution, and perhaps they had even more than they knew to feel thankful for.
He took Phoebe to Grandison Square after dinner on Sunday evening in order to observe for himself the change in Colonel Faversham's demeanour, at which Carrissima had hinted. Certainly the colonel had not much to say even concerning the progress of the Parliament Bill through the House of Commons, and presently Lawrence skilfully introduced Bridget's name.
"By the bye," he asked, turning to Carrissima, "you haven't discoveredMiss Rosser's address yet?"
"I haven't tried," was the answer, as Colonel Faversham's cough became troublesome.
"You ought to get Mark to give you something for it," suggested Lawrence, and the colonel was explaining that it was merely a tickling in his throat, when, opportunely, Mark Driver entered the room.
During his hospital days, he would often look in at Grandison Square onSunday evenings, and just now he felt a greater longing forCarrissima's society than ever in his life before, as one may pine fora cooling draught on the morning following a night's carouse.
"Ah!" exclaimed Lawrence, "here's the man who may be able to enlighten us."
"What about?" asked Mark, as he shook hands with one after another.
"The bird that's flown," said Lawrence, with a laugh.
"Who's that?"
"Bridget," Carrissima explained, "has gone away from Golfney Place."
"And left no address!" cried her brother.
Carrissima, having now recovered her usual common-sense, did not for a moment imagine that Mark's astonishment was counterfeited. She felt certain that his inquiries were perfectly sincere, bewildered as she still remained whenever she thought of his conduct that afternoon of disillusion.
She had dropped back into the habit which had prevailed so long, and was once more regulating her demeanour with a fervent desire to deceive. She was convinced of one fact at the least. She had counted her chicks before they were hatched; it appeared impossible, in the face of what she had witnessed, that Mark could entertain the shadow of a regard for her. Still, it was obvious that he knew nothing more about Bridget's movements than Jimmy or Colonel Faversham, who made a valiant effort to change the subject by asking Mark whether he had anything to do. As it happened, he was quite busy in his incipient way. Sir Wilford Scones was seriously ill, and Randolph Messeter had been called in for a consultation. There would probably be an operation before the week ended. With the deliberate intention of creating a favourable impression on the colonel, for whose daughter's hand he was on the point of asking, Mark explained that Harefield's practice was turning out far better than could have been expected. Now and then he glanced significantly at Carrissima, who might have bidden him "good-bye" very happily if Bridget Rosser had never entered her life.
The next morning, at about twelve o'clock, Mark was in his consulting-room when Jimmy was announced. Sybil had seen him leave Upper Grosvenor Street with considerable misgiving, dreading lest his interview with Mark should lead to trouble with Carrissima. She sighed to remember his scepticism about Bridget's backsliding, and felt confident that her brother was on his way to a very painful ordeal.
Jimmy, for his own part, had scarcely attempted to explain the discrepancy between Sybil's story and his own ideal of Bridget. Otherwise he might, perhaps, have come to the conclusion that Carrissima had exaggerated, while Sybil had added a little more ghastly colour. Sybil was sometimes given to that kind of trick.
That Mark was nothing to Bridget, never had been anything to her, Jimmy felt certain. Driver had, indeed, dropped so completely out of her life that it had not seemed worth while to take the trouble to go to Weymouth Street in the hope of discovering a clue to her present abiding-place. In any case, Jimmy reached the house this Monday morning with a conviction that the scandalous fiction would at once be exploded.
He came to the point at once.
"Rather an unpleasant business has brought me here, Mark," he exclaimed. "To begin with, there's one thing I want to say. Understand I believe the whole story is acanard."
"What story?" asked Mark, sitting in his swivel-chair on one side of the leather-topped writing-table, while Jimmy stood a foot from the other.
"Of course," Jimmy continued, "I know there's not a grain of truth in it. Still when such an abominable accusation has been made, it's just as well to lose no time in scotching it."
Mark Driver had not the least suspicion. He sat with one elbow on the table, one hand supporting his chin, his handsome, alert face wearing the somewhat grave expression suitable to his professional environment. His visit to Grandison Square the previous evening alone would have been enough to prove, if proof were necessary, that Carrissima remained blissfully ignorant of that trivial act of folly in Golfney Place. An excellent test had been provided. Bridget's departure had been freely discussed, and Carrissima had not shown the slightest embarrassment. She had bidden him "good-bye" at eleven o'clock, and Colonel Faversham had encouraged him to come again before many days. They were always pleased to see him!
"But who in the world has been making an accusation?" asked Mark.
"Sybil—at least it originated with Carrissima," said Jimmy.
"My dear chap," retorted Mark warmly, "surely you must know that Carrissima is the very last person to make an accusation, founded or unfounded, against anybody."
"I should have thought so," Jimmy admitted.
"Whom is it against?"
"Bridget. I am bound to bring it out," said Jimmy. "The fact is Carrissima insists that you two have been gulling us all. To put it plainly, she declares there has been what she rather euphemistically calls 'an understanding' between you from first to last."
Mark was on his feet before Jimmy ceased speaking, but even now he did not perceive the real inwardness of the situation. The statement sounded incredible. If there was one fact of which this somewhat sceptical man was absolutely convinced, it was that whether Carrissima loved him well enough to marry him or not, she at least entertained the very highest opinion of him.
"You must be dreaming!" he cried. "Carrissima could never have said anything of the kind."
"Anyhow," answered Jimmy, "I had it from Sybil an hour or so ago."
"But, my dear fellow," Mark expostulated, "it's simply inconceivable.Carrissima knows that Bridget is nothing to me. To tell you the truth,I had my own reasons for going out of my way to tell her so."
"You thought it necessary!" exclaimed Jimmy hastily.
"Oh well," said Mark, "I had fallen into the habit of going to Golfney Place rather often—that was before I went to Yorkshire—as far back as January. Carrissima had the idea that I admired the girl; so I did, for that matter—who wouldn't? But she could never have told Sybil that! She couldn't think anything of the sort without setting me down as a thorough-paced liar at the least."
"The odd part of it is," replied Jimmy, "that, according to Sybil,Carrissima went in for particulars."
"Oh, let me hear them," said Mark, sitting down again.
He was just beginning to wonder. Was it possible that Carrissima had not dropped those flowers until after she had obtained a glimpse of the interior of Bridget's sitting-room? But, even so, she could never build such an abominable theory on that ludicrously insufficient evidence.
"Well," said Jimmy, "Carrissima insists that she saw you holdingBridget in your arms—in the act of kissing her, to put it plainly."
This was a trying moment for Mark Driver. His face was crimson, and he would have given a great deal to be able to deny the too soft impeachment. As this was impossible, he lost his temper with Carrissima. Egoism was probably the prime factor in his present mood. He thought less of the excuse he had provided than of the painful circumstance that he had been cutting such a sorry figure in her eyes.
While he flattered himself that she regarded him as a kind of king who could do no wrong, she had, in truth, looked upon him as a pretty contemptible scoundrel. It seemed an additional offence that she should have dissembled her opinion, so that when he, being beguiled, asked her to marry him, she might coolly send him about his business.
A suspicion of something, perhaps, resembling insincerity in his own conduct made him only more intolerant of hers. He saw now how much better it would have been, instead of trusting for immunity to her ignorance, to have taken his courage in his hands and made a clean breast of what, after all, was only a venial offence. A counsel of perfection, no doubt, but Mark wished that he had followed it.
He was deeply wounded in the most sensitive part, but while admitting his weakness in yielding to a commonplace temptation, he could make no excuse for Carrissima's scandalous libel. An hour ago, she had been the only woman in the world for him; as to Bridget—well, the old Adam had cropped out for an instant. To account for his vulnerability one must embark on a study of the theory of Evolution! If he had been actually affianced to Carrissima, the case would, no doubt, have been more serious, although even then there could be no justification for her shameful accusation. But he was not affianced to her, and, in the face of what he had just heard, he never wished to be.
Jimmy saw that Mark was deeply moved, and made a shrewd guess at the cause. In a friendly way, he walked round the writing-table, and standing by the side of the chair, rested a hand on the other's shoulder.
"I shouldn't take it too seriously," he said. "You'll generally find there's a way out somehow. You know I told you, to begin with, that I knew it was an infernal lie!"
"But—you see—it wasn't," answered Mark.