After Phoebe had voiced her husband’s opinion of Miss Rosser, Lawrence himself came home in time to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.  Sybil left the house with the opinion that poor Jimmy stood in the acutest danger.  It seemed evident that she had scarcely exaggerated when she declared, in the first place, that Bridget was not “respectable”!

She stiffened herself as it was only possible to do when duty called her, and the consequence was that all of Jimmy’s entreaties proved vain.  He, however, was not on any account to be deterred.  The only circumstance which would have been likely to hinder him was being sedulously hidden.  Had he for an instant suspected the existence of any previous engagement he would have been the last man in the world to poach on another’s preserve.  As things were, he waited a few days, then presented himself with his usual cool audacity at Golfney Place.

“Where is Miss Clynesworth?” asked Bridget.

“I rather fancy she’s spending the day somewhere in the neighbourhood of Deptford,” was the answer.

“You must have forgotten what I told you,” suggested Bridget.

“Every word you said is indelibly impressed on my memory,” said Jimmy.

“I insisted,” replied Bridget, “that you were not to come without your sister!”

“Oh dear, no,” he exclaimed.  “It’s quite true you said I might come with her, but you will see on reflection that is a different matter.”

“The fact is,” said Bridget, “Miss Clynesworth is determined not to show me the light of her countenance.”

“I am fairly certain that is a mistake,” returned Jimmy.  “I am convinced she will come, but not at present.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged his shoulders and told himself that women were sometimes rather severe on one another.  Wandering about the room, Jimmy looked at one or two of the oleographs on the light-papered walls, and presently his eyes rested on the hanging bookshelf.

“You have a collection of your father’s novels!” he suggested.

“Have you read any of them?” she asked, with obviously quickened interest.

“Yes, several,” was the answer.  He took one down from the slide.  “I was introduced to Mr. Rosser by old Faversham at Crowborough,” he continued.  “I wish to goodness I had seen you at the same time!  Besides,” continued Jimmy, as he turned the pages while Bridget stood looking over his shoulder, “I met him once afterwards.  That was at the Garrick.  I was dining there one evening, and he joined the party.  I remember perfectly well that he was the life and soul of it.  His books were always a delight to me, if only for their style.”

Jimmy put back the volume he had been examining and took down another, continuing to discuss its contents for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour.

“Miss Rosser!” he cried suddenly, “I am the most arrant humbug!”

“Aren’t you really interested in the books?” she asked.