Five years ago Bridget had been barely eighteen; she had looked even younger than Carrissima:  a slim, graceful girl, apparently just fresh from the school-room.  She lived in a delightful, old-fashioned house with a rambling garden, situated about a quarter of a mile from that which Colonel Faversham had rented furnished for the summer because of its proximity to the golf-course.

His wife had died twelve months earlier, and Carrissima, in her eighteenth year, proved an inexperienced hostess to the relays of visitors, who included, amongst others, Mark Driver (at that time a medical student), his sister Phoebe and Miss Sybil Clynesworth.  At the club-house Colonel Faversham met David Rosser and Mrs. Rosser, already an invalid, having been wheeled over in her bath-chair to make Carrissima’s acquaintance; there were henceforth frequent journeyings on bicycles between the two houses, until the time arrived for the Favershams’ return to London.

One or two letters had been exchanged between Carrissima and Bridget, who was invited to stay in Grandison Square; but the visit was prevented by Mrs. Rosser’s increasing illness, and so the intercourse between the two families fell off.

Carrissima had not seen Bridget since their parting at the railway station five years ago.  Ought she to go and see her now?  If she refrained, might not people suspect some hidden motive?  Her brother Lawrence, for instance, who was apt to search for mysterious springs of action, and who must not on any account be allowed to hit upon the true one.

No doubt Carrissima was sensitive and self-conscious; moreover, she was jealous.  She was, however, extremely curious also—­curious to see for herself how Bridget had developed—­and in the end she made up her mind to go to Golfney Place.  She looked very small and bright when, a few days later, she set forth, wearing the new set of furs, which were certainly her most becoming apparel.  She had hesitated whether the March afternoon was really cold enough to justify their use, and before reaching her destination came to the conclusion that it was not.

But, regarding Bridget as possibly a rival, she wished to make her bravest show.  With her dark, wide-brimmed hat, her remarkably fair hair, her fresh, clear complexion and her diminutive but piquantly womanly figure, she assuredly need not fear any ordinary comparison.

Golfney Place is a secluded thoroughfare, containing a few intensely respectable-looking shops, an estate-agent’s office, a church and some superior lodging-houses.  These, like the church, were all painted white, and, indeed, some of them were at present receiving their fresh spring coats.

The door of Number 5 was opened by a middle-aged man, Mr. Miller, the proprietor of the house, and indistinguishable in appearance from an ordinary butler.

“Miss Rosser?” said Carrissima, and, taking her up-stairs, he stopped to ask her name on the first landing.