Nevertheless there hung persistently in the background the tragedy of his years!  He might upon occasion strike one as a comic figure, and of course he saw no reason why he should not live to be a hundred.  An exceptional age, no doubt, but then he was an exceptional man, as perhaps every man appears to himself.  But Colonel Faversham was not already without warnings which he would not admit for the world.  In his desire to convince himself that he was as robust as ever, he continued to take the same amount of exercise as he had enjoyed twenty years earlier.  No one knew how weary the evenings found him, and, besides, there was that increasing stiffness of his joints.

He was particularly eager that Bridget should create a favourable impression on Lawrence, as indeed she could scarcely fail to do.  Carrissima, notwithstanding a lamentable sense of inhospitality, when the evening arrived found it on the whole rather amusing.  Her brother entered the drawing-room at Grandison Square with his head higher in the air than ever, while Phoebe looked as usual serenely pretty and contented.  There was Bridget Rosser with her beautiful shoulders bare, with her piquant face, her glorious hair, obviously bent upon enjoyment.

Lawrence took her in to dinner, and Phoebe certainly thought that she had deliberately set herself to captivate him.  So did the colonel, but Carrissima made a valiant effort to do her guest justice.  It really seemed too paltry to be critical because Mark admired her.  In Carrissima’s opinion Bridget was not exerting herself to make a favourable impression either on Lawrence or his father.  No such effort was necessary!  Nature had anticipated any endeavours of her own.  With her face and figure it must be positively difficult not to please any man with eyes in his head.  Her curiously childlike ingenuousness was too perfect to be counterfeited.  Bridget charmed because she must.

When she referred to the report of a recent lawsuit in which Lawrence had admittedly increased his already growing reputation, Carrissima smiled to see him unbend, although she might feel inclined to frown when she noticed that Colonel Faversham’s eyes scarcely left Bridget’s face until she rose from her chair to follow her hostess up-stairs.

In the drawing-room, while the men were smoking, she inquired after Phoebe’s boy.  She declared she was “so fond of children” in a tone which compelled credence.  She wished to know the colour of Victor’s eyes and hair; she listened to Phoebe’s marvellous stories of his precocity without the slightest sign of scepticism or boredom.

“He is going to have a party of his own next week,” said his mother.

“Beginning early,” returned Bridget, as the door opened and Lawrence and the colonel came in.

“What’s that, what’s that?” demanded Colonel Faversham, crossing the room to Bridget’s side.

“I was telling Miss Rosser,” Phoebe explained, “that Victor is going to have a party.  Eight children all under three.”