Mark Driver, having dined at Duffield's Hotel, set out, with a cigar between his lips, to Golfney Place. In the Strand he hailed a taxi-cab, and his arrival obviously took Bridget completely by surprise. She had always an alluring, seductive way with her, and now, unaware of his return from Paris, she rose almost impulsively from her chair, and came to meet him with such an air of abandon that he thought for the moment she intended to fling herself incontinently into his arms.

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?"