“Anyhow,” Mark admitted, “they gave us some ripping Burgundy.  I got away directly we finished dinner,” he continued, “and I knew Phoebe wouldn’t mind.”

“Well,” said Lawrence, in response to her warning frown, “now you’re here, suppose we have a game at bridge.”

CHAPTER III

BRIDGET

To put the matter plainly, Carrissima was jealous.

It was half-past eleven when she reached her father’s house at Number 13, Grandison Square, S.W., and she felt pleased to find that the fire was still alight in the drawing-room.  Having told the butler that he need not sit up any longer, she threw off her long cloak, leaned back in an easy-chair right in front of the grate, crossed her feet on the fender, and clasped her miniature waist.

Remembering Bridget Rosser, with her vivid chestnut-coloured hair, her somewhat pale skin, her wonderful eyes (as Mark quite justifiably described them), her face, which was extraordinarily attractive, although it might not contain one perfect feature, Carrissima could not help feeling that there might be serious cause for jealousy.

Of course, it was evident that Mark had not expected to find her at Charteris Street; he had believed she was still at Church Stretton with Colonel Faversham, and perhaps, if he had been aware of her presence in London, Lawrence might not have had to wait for his dinner.  Moreover, Mark Driver was precisely the kind of man who would go out of his way to do any woman a good turn—­pretty or plain; but still, after making every allowance, the fact remained that Carrissima was jealous.

It had for long been an open question (in her own mind at least) whether he cared for her or not.  If he did, she would have liked to know why he had waited so long before putting his fate to the touch, although the matter was again complicated by the sensitiveness of Mark’s disposition.

Carrissima’s modest fortune (derived from her mother), which would have proved a temptation to many men, might be an obstacle where he was concerned.  The fact that it was just what he required at the beginning of his career might easily be conceived as holding him back.  Not that she imagined that, in favourable circumstances, it would be regarded as a perpetual barrier; only Mark might prefer to wait until he had settled down to the more serious practice of the profession, about which no man could be keener.  The truth was that Carrissima was prone to search for a variety of explanations for his backwardness, all more or less fantastic.

The immediate question was:  Should she take any notice of Bridget Rosser, or leave her to her own devices?

In the ordinary course of things, Carrissima would scarcely have hesitated.  If she had been told by anybody else that Bridget was living alone in London, doubtless she would have lost very little time in finding her way to Number 5, Golfney Place.  She invariably strove to act in every particular as if she were entirely disinterested, although she was far from being so.  She knew that her life’s happiness depended solely on Mark!