“That is your own imagination!” cried Carrissima.  “You cannot possibly have any ground for believing such a thing!”

“Anyhow, I have his own assurance; besides, he told Jimmy, if my word is not enough.  You told Sybil that Mark had lied to you, and acted goodness knows how horridly concerning me, and the truth was he had merely lost his head for a single instant, and what was it after all?  Carrissima, I have taken myself to pieces just to convince you I am sincere for once in a way!  I see the possibility of danger ahead . . . danger that Mark is too much hurt to come forward again, and what a pity!  Take my advice and don’t let things rest.  What does it matter who eats humble pie if you’re going to dine together for the remainder of your lives?  Do something at once!  Write to him—­send for him as I sent for you.  I hoped I might make you believe he loves you, and that then you might live happily ever after!”

CHAPTER XXVI

LAWRENCE SUMS IT UP

The ensuing few hours proved the most restless of Carrissima’s life.  At luncheon she could scarcely concentrate her thoughts sufficiently to listen to the explanation of Colonel Faversham’s plans for the forthcoming tour abroad, and afterwards she retired to her own room, where she made a valiant attempt to persuade herself that as the mountain would not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain.

It required, however, considerable courage to follow Bridget’s advice and send Mark a letter, and when at last she succeeded in silencing her doubts, she scarcely knew what to say to him.  Hitherto, in all her dealings with Mark, she had felt uncertain (to say the least) about his regard.  Now, if Bridget were to be credited, there remained no room for disbelief.  Mark loved her!  In spite of that compromising situation which she had witnessed, he loved her.

If this were the case, nothing else seemed to be of any importance.  Carrissima was prepared to condone an offence, the importance of which, she supposed, she had exaggerated; and perhaps if she were to make herself more abject, he would grasp the olive branch.  As Bridget suggested, what did it matter so that they came together at last?  Granting his love, as there could be no doubt about her own, it would be sheer foolishness to allow the present unfortunate estrangement to continue.

So she took a pen presently, and after profound consideration succeeded in writing the few necessary words—­

“MY DEAR MARK,

“Will you be magnanimous and spare me a few minutes after dinner this evening?

“Yours very sincerely,

“CARRISSIMA.”

The mountain in labour having brought forth a mouse, Carrissima put on her hat and set out, intending personally to post the letter.  There would be ample time.  He would receive it before seven o’clock, and, it was to be hoped, reach Grandison Square soon after nine.  She determined to be on the watch for his arrival, in order to take him to some unoccupied room.  Well, what then? she wondered, as she drew near the pillar-box.  What could she do but repeat the assurance already given that she had never really believed what she told Sybil Clynesworth—­or at the worst only for a few seconds.