“Well,” suggested Lawrence, “we haven’t heard why you didn’t turn up in time.”

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” said Mark, at last shaking hands with his brother-in-law.

“Only half-an-hour!”

“You see,” Mark explained, “I dined at Belloni’s.”

“Good gracious!” answered Lawrence, with evident annoyance, “if you could go to Belloni’s, why in the world couldn’t you come here as you promised?”

“I meant to come,” said Mark, looking somewhat embarrassed, as he glanced at Carrissima.  “You see, I went to Duffield’s Hotel in Craven Street direct from the station.  I thought I would just potter about and smoke a pipe or so till it was time to change.”

“But you haven’t changed!” exclaimed Lawrence, with a disapproving frown at Mark’s blue serge jacket.  It no doubt suited his long, athletic figure admirably; but, nevertheless, was very much out of place in present circumstances.

“No, of course not,” said Mark.  “The fact is I altered my mind.  Instead of hanging about at Duffield’s, I thought I would go to Golfney Place.”

“What on earth for?”

“Oh well, to see Bridget, you know,” answered Mark, and once more he glanced at Carrissima, whose eyes met his own.

CHAPTER II

MARK EXPLAINS

“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.