“Still,” said Bridget, “he seemed quite worried about his brother-in-law.  I mustn’t tell tales out of school, and Mr. Faversham is your brother, isn’t he?  Won’t you unfasten those furs,” she suggested.  “You must find them rather warm to-day, although I’m certain I should have put them on in spite of the temperature if they were mine.  Perfectly lovely!  Do let me help you!”

She turned on the wide sofa to face Carrissima and deftly unhooked the furs, taking the end of the stole in her hands and pressing it against her cheek.  When the butler brought in the tea-tray, Bridget asked him to move a small table on to the hearthrug, and as soon as he left the room again she began to talk while pouring out the tea.

“How often,” she cried, “I have wondered whether I should ever see you again during this earthly pilgrimage.  Sugar?” she asked.  “You remember our dear old house and the delightful garden!  Of course my darling mother’s illness had begun before you came to Crowborough.  Poor father was never really the same after her death.”

She paused, holding a cup and saucer in her hand, but turning her eyes towards the window.  Carrissima saw that they were moist when Bridget began again.

“We gave up the house because he couldn’t rest long in any one place, and yet he could never write at his best moving about.  You know, Carrissima, it was really a tragedy.  He took such pains—­writing and re-writing, especially after he and I were left alone; but he knew he wasn’t reaching his own standard.  He never said a word, but of course I saw he was worrying himself to death.  I have copies of all his novels; they are over on that shelf,” she said, turning towards a pair of hanging shelves at the farther end of the room.  “And there are portfolios full of press cuttings.  I used to cut them out and paste them in for him.  It seems like a dream to look back.  You know I used to think of you as ever so much older than myself, because you seemed to be the mistress of the house.”

“Well,” answered Carrissima, “I am not many months younger.”

“Ah! but now I regard you as quite a child in comparison.”

“That doesn’t prevent me from being twenty-two,” said Carrissima.

“No, of course not, but the actual years are nothing.  It’s all that’s crowded into them—­oh dear!  I have had such experiences!  During the last few months of poor father’s life we lived in an appartement in Paris, and afterwards I didn’t know what to do or where to go, so I kept it on for myself.  I used to go to Ronseau’s studio—­you’ve heard of Ronseau?—­till he convinced me it wasn’t of the slightest use to persevere.  Then I came to London and soon began to wish I hadn’t.  Because I did know ever so many people in Paris, but over here I can’t tell you how deadly dull it was until I met Mark.”

“You must come and see me as soon as you can,” suggested Carrissima.