On going out to the street again, he was on the point of hailing another taxi-cab, when Carrissima proposed walking at least a part of the way.

“Carrissima,” he said, gazing down into her eyes, a few minutes later, “what is the colour?”

“Oh well,” she replied, “there are ever so many blended together, you know.”

“I thought there must be two,” he admitted.

“Of course,” she said, “the general effect is bronze and black.”

“Blue or grey?” murmured Mark, as she looked up again.

“Have many carpets made you mad?” she demanded.  “I don’t understand what you are talking about!”

“I was wondering about the colour of your eyes.  I can’t quite make up my mind about them,” he continued.  “At one moment they look grey, at another blue.”

“Surely,” answered Carrissima, quite unwontedly happy, “you have known me long enough to feel no doubt.”

“It is possible,” said Mark, “that I have known you too long.”

“Oh, thank you,” she exclaimed.  “So custom stales any variety they possess.”

“Not at all,” he urged.  “What I meant was that familiarity, as the copybooks say, may breed a kind of—­well, scarcely contempt——­”

“Mark,” said Carrissima, “the more you say the worse you will make it.  I really think you had better be quiet.  How long is it,” she asked, as they walked towards Weymouth Street on the way to Grandison Square, “since you saw Bridget?”

“Not since the day after my return from Paris,” he replied.  “I have not been near Golfney Place.  Nor,” he added, “have I any intention of going.  To all intents and purposes, Bridget has dropped out of my life.”

“Any one would imagine,” said Carrissima, “that she had done something to annoy you.”

“Oh dear, no,” was the answer.  “I am simply indifferent.”  Before she had time to explain that she had promised to go to Golfney Place the following afternoon, he added, “By the bye, your fears have not been realized so far.  I am immensely glad of that.”

“Ah, yes,” said Carrissima; “after Bridget’s curious confidences, I suppose you expected something—­something horrid to occur quite soon!”

“We need not rake up the past,” cried Mark, who would have preferred to avoid Bridget’s name, which indeed had not been mentioned between them during the last few weeks.

“For that matter,” she said, “my anxiety is practically a thing of the past.”

“Is Colonel Faversham cooling off?”

“Not in the least.  It is difficult not to feel rather sorry for him.  He goes day after day—­but then a fresh act has begun.  Jimmy has appeared on the scene.”

“Jimmy!” cried Mark in unfeigned surprise.

“He met her at our house some time ago,” Carrissima explained.  “It was really quite entertaining.  Those two seemed to draw together on the instant, as if one were the magnet and the other the needle.  Besides, I have the advantage of Sybil’s confidences.  Poor Sybil!  I can assure you she is in the most dreadful state of mind.”