“Miss Faversham,” he announced, as she walked into the drawing-room, a large, lofty room with three windows, rather ornately furnished, and reminding Carrissima of various scenes on the stage.  Before the fireplace stood a sofa covered with cretonne of a florid pattern, and from the middle of this Bridget rose.

She was obviously formed to play havoc with the hearts of men, and although she could scarcely be described as beautiful, she was no doubt marvellously seductive.  If her features were not regular, the ensemble was delightful, even in the estimation of one who felt disposed to criticize.  Her face would have run to a point at the chin if this had not been blunted by an entrancing dimple.  Bridget’s vivid chestnut-coloured hair grew low over a somewhat wide forehead, while her eyes were dark and curiously expressive.

Without being conspicuously tall, she had the advantage of her guest by several inches, although her figure might be less developed, or perhaps it looked smaller because of her additional inches.  She obviously employed an excellent dressmaker, and if she had hitherto been compelled to hide her light under a bushel, she had surely only to be seen to conquer.  The important question was:  Had she already succeeded in conquering Mark Driver?

For an instant she stood gazing at Carrissima as if unable to believe either her ears or her eyes; then with a slow, gliding movement, in contrast with the other’s more rapid, impulsive manner, she came forward holding out both hands.

“Why, it’s Carrissima, after all these many, many years!” she exclaimed, and without a moment’s hesitation kissed her cheek, just as she had done at parting that long time ago.  “How nice of you to come,” she continued, still retaining one of her guest’s hands, and leading her to the sofa.  “I suppose it was Mark who asked you,” she said, as they both sat down.

“He didn’t exactly ask me,” returned Carrissima.  “Of course I shouldn’t have known you were in London but for him.  I met him at my brother’s the other evening.”

“Ah, that was the night he arrived so late for dinner,” said Bridget.  “Did he get into the most dreadful scrape?”

“Anyhow,” was the answer, “I suppose he was able to start to Paris the next morning, as I haven’t heard to the contrary.”

“Oh yes,” cried Bridget, “if he hadn’t gone I should have seen him here.  Isn’t it tiresome of him!”

“What?” asked Carrissima.

“No sooner coming back to London than off he must go the very next day.  He came to see me directly he returned from Yorkshire,” Bridget explained, “and—­well, I happened to have a fit of the miserables.  I assure you I am not often taken that way.  Mark was tremendously nice—­he always is, isn’t he?  He insisted that I should go out to dinner and what could I do?”

“Why, nothing but go,” replied Carrissima, with the utmost cheerfulness.