LATE FOR DINNER

Concerning Bridget there was from the outset considerable difference of opinion.  Mark Driver, for instance, always showed a tendency to something more than tolerance, and even Carrissima Faversham, in spite of a manifestly unfavourable bias, strove to hold the balance even.  It was her brother Lawrence who took the most adverse view; insisting that Miss Rosser was neither more nor less than an adventuress—­“a pretty woman on the make” was his expression, uttered, it is true, before he had an opportunity of seeing her face.

Her entrance on the scene was heralded by Mark Driver one evening towards the end of March, when he had accepted an invitation to dine with his sister and Lawrence in Charteris Street, S.W.

Carrissima’s maid found her so exacting that evening, that she might have been going to an important party, instead of merely to a quiet dinner with her brother and his wife; but then, expecting Mark to make a fourth, she wished to look her very best, and flattered herself she had succeeded.

Although she sometimes longed for the power to add a few inches to her stature, she realized that she had already much to be thankful for.  Suppose, for example, that her eyebrows had been as fair as her hair, or even worse, her eyelashes, which as it happened were satisfactorily black.

Mr. Lawrence Faversham, barrister-at-law, was thirty-two years of age, and rather short, although he always held his head in the air as if he were doing his best to appear taller.  Hearing the street door bell ring, Mrs. Lawrence Faversham waylaid Carrissima on the stairs and insisted on taking her to gaze at little Victor, aged two, peacefully sleeping in the nursery.

“Mark’s late as usual,” exclaimed Lawrence, as his sister presently sailed into the drawing-room.  “Ten minutes past eight,” he added, taking her hand.

He had fair hair, a long narrow face and sloping shoulders.  Whether he was sitting down or standing up, there always seemed to be something stiff, self-important and formal about him.

“Mark wasn’t due at King’s Cross until tea-time,” said Phoebe, a pretty brunette, several inches taller than her husband and seven years younger.  “I wanted him to sleep here to-night, and really I cannot imagine why he refused.”

“Not very complimentary to us,” answered Lawrence, “to prefer to go to an hotel!”

“And,” Phoebe explained, “he is off to Paris to-morrow morning.”

“Well, I wish to goodness he would come soon if he’s coming at all,” grumbled Lawrence.

“Oh, of course, he’s certain to be here,” urged Phoebe, not liking to begin dinner without her brother, who might provokingly arrive as soon as they sat down; while on the other hand, her three years’ experience of married life had taught her that it was undesirable to keep Lawrence waiting.  When half-past eight struck, however, she could restrain his impatience no longer; the three went to the dining-room, and Carrissima, with a sense of profound disappointment, sat down at the round table opposite the empty chair.