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 discovered
Miss 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 on
Sunday evenings, and just now he felt a greater longing for
Carrissima's society than ever in his life before, as one may pine for
a 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 a canard."

"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 holding
Bridget 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.

"I don't understand," said Jimmy, withdrawing his hand.

"It's perfectly true," muttered Mark, moistening his lips, "that
Carrissima came to Golfney Place and saw me——"

"Saw you—saw you with Bridget in your arms! Good Lord!" exclaimed
Jimmy, gazing down at Mark's bowed head.

Rising from his chair, Mark gripped one lapelle of his frock coat in each hand as he paced the small room.

"She was talking about her earlier days at Crowborough," he said, with considerable embarrassment. "She had been there that morning. She seemed upset, and I—well, I lost my head for the moment. I hadn't seen her since the day after my return from Paris. What I told Carrissima was absolutely true. The moment she entered Bridget's room I saw what a fool I had been. Of course, we both made the mistake of imagining Carrissima had seen nothing. But anyhow—whatever she saw, to think she could jump to such a conclusion!"

"Not very surprising, after all," said Jimmy quietly. "I fancy that I should have thought the same. You must admit the situation appeared a little compromising."

"You wouldn't say that if you had seen Bridget later on," answered Mark.

"Look here, old fellow," said Jimmy, "you and I have known each other a good many years. You remember when we used to fight like billy-oh at Brighton."

"I dare say you feel rather as if you would like to punch my head now," returned Mark.

"H'm, well—I tell you frankly," said Jimmy. "This jaw we're having may influence my whole life."

"It has already influenced mine," cried Mark.

"How's that?" demanded Jimmy.

"I have been hoping to marry Carrissima—to put it plainly. You've shown what she thinks of me."

"Surely," said Jimmy, "she had more than a little excuse!"

"My dear chap," replied Mark, "you're not such a prig that you can't understand the possibility of a man's losing his head about a pretty woman."

"Why, no," said Jimmy; "but I wish to goodness you had not chosen that particular one."

"If I had imagined Carrissima saw us, I should have explained things at once," added Mark.

"The question is," suggested Jimmy, "whether your explanation would have sounded quite convincing."

"Good Lord!" said Mark, "you speak as if you were not convinced!"

"Of one thing—yes," was the answer. "I can understand a fellow's kissing a pretty woman—or a dozen if it comes to that, but I know you're not the man to go where you're not certain you're wanted."

Now Mark hesitated, thinking that he had humiliated himself almost enough. Seeing, however, that Jimmy was hanging upon his answer, he felt compelled to belittle himself to the uttermost rather than allow the slightest obstacle to remain between Bridget and this man who appointed himself her champion.

"The truth is," said Mark, "I—well, I made a mistake."

"About Bridget?" demanded Jimmy eagerly.

"Yes," answered Mark. "I had no shadow of an excuse. From first to last she had never given me the remotest reason. It was simply my own egregious stupidity. To put it honestly, I acted like a bounder. I'm immensely sorry, Jimmy."

Jimmy could not help feeling sore about it. For one thing, he regretted the necessity to admit to Sybil that the false report contained that one word of truth. Worse than this! an indignity had been put on Bridget by Mark Driver, who seemed the last man in the world to inflict it. Jimmy, however, realized that one of her most potent charms was a delectable, seductive ingenuousness and irresponsibility, which might, perhaps, on occasion prove a little misleading to unregenerate man. Nevertheless, he felt sore as he left Weymouth Street.