"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, "and Bridget was his only daughter."

"A rather nice-looking girl, with reddish hair!" said Phoebe.

"The most wonderful hair!" exclaimed Mark. "I have never seen anything like it. Oh, she's wonderful altogether!"

"Where did you come across Miss Rosser again?" inquired Lawrence, while
Carrissima wished that her cheeks would not tingle so uncomfortably.

"At the Old Masters' about three months ago—just after Christmas," replied Mark. "I had lately left Saint Josephine's, you know. I should never have recognized her, but she happened to drop her purse; I naturally picked it up, and then she asked whether my name wasn't Driver."

"Isn't Golfney Place chiefly lodging-houses?" asked Carrissima.

"Number Five is one, anyhow."

"Does Miss Rosser live with her mother?" suggested Phoebe.

"Mrs. Rosser died shortly after we left Crowborough," was the answer. "Then the house was given up. Bridget wandered about Europe with her father until his own death a little less than a year ago."

"Then," demanded Lawrence, "whom does she live with?"

"Oh, she's quite on her own."

"What is her age, for goodness' sake?"

"Upon my word, I don't know for certain," said Mark. "I couldn't very well inquire. I should say she's about the same age as Carrissima."

"As a matter of prosaic fact," answered Carrissima, forcing a smile, although she did not feel very cheerful at the moment, "she is a few months older."

"Well," Lawrence persisted, "after picking up the purse at the Old
Masters', what was the next move in the game?"

Phoebe was beginning to look rather anxious. She realized that Mark was growing impatient under Lawrence's cross-examination—he was supposed to be a skilful cross-examiner. It was occasionally a little difficult to keep the peace between these two men, who were her dearest; with the exception, perhaps, of the little man up-stairs.

"Bridget asked me to call," said Mark, "or I asked whether I might. I forget which, and what in the world does it matter?"

"Anyhow, you went!"

"Why, of course," was the answer.

"Is Miss Rosser—is she hard up, by any chance?" asked Lawrence.

"Good Lord, no!" exclaimed Mark. "My dear fellow, you've got quite a wrong impression. Hard up! You've only to see her."

"No doubt," suggested Lawrence, "you have had numerous opportunities."

"Oh well," said Mark, with a shrug, "she was on her lonesome and so was
I at the time. It was just before I went to Yorkshire, you know.
Carrissima was in Devonshire and I was kicking my heels in idleness at
Duffield's."

"It really was rather too bad," remarked Phoebe, "to go there this evening, considering that you were engaged to dine with us. Wasn't it, Carrissima?"

"Oh, it was shameful of you, Mark!" cried Carrissima, with a laugh.

"You understand how it was," he explained, taking a chair by her side. "I didn't mean to stay ten minutes. I thought I could get there and back comfortably in a taxi, and so I should, but——"

"The temptation proved too strong for you," suggested Lawrence.

"I don't know what you mean by 'temptation,'" retorted Mark, while Phoebe tried to catch her husband's eye. "Bridget was most awfully pleased to see me. She had a fit of the blues for some reason or other."

"Is she liable to that sort of thing?" asked Lawrence.

"Not a bit of it," said Mark enthusiastically. "She's just about the brightest girl you have ever seen in your life. That was what made it the more upsetting. I felt I must do something to cheer her up."

"So you took her to Belloni's!" said Lawrence. "They do you uncommonly well at Belloni's."

"Anyhow," Mark admitted, "they gave us some ripping Burgundy. I got away directly we finished dinner," he continued, "and I knew Phoebe wouldn't mind."

"Well," said Lawrence, in response to her warning frown, "now you're here, suppose we have a game at bridge."