Enter Bridget | Page 2

to sixpence for a telegram. For a steady-going fellow Mark is about as erratic as they're made."
"How extremely inconsistent!" exclaimed Carrissima.
"Not at all!" said Lawrence, frowning, as he took a chair. "A man may drive crookedly without exceeding the limit. Although there are things you can swear Mark would never dream of doing, you never know what folly he will be up to next."
As Lawrence was speaking in his rather pompous manner, the door opened and Mark Driver entered the room: tall, broad-shouldered, with a handsome, alert, shaven face and an obvious appearance of haste.
On leaving Cambridge he had gone to Saint Bartholomew's, and having completed his course there, taken a post as House Surgeon at Saint Josephine's, a small hospital in a southeastern suburb. Mark remained there two years and left at Christmas; after spending a few weeks idly in London he went to take charge of Doctor Bunbury's practice in Yorkshire, principally for the sake of being near to his own people, and having passed two months, more occupied by sport than patients, returned this afternoon.
"Why didn't you come in time for dinner?" demanded Phoebe, as he kissed her cheek.
"Upon my word, I am most awfully sorry," he replied, and turned at once to Carrissima, who was striving to hide her satisfaction on seeing his face again. Never, perhaps, during their long acquaintance, had they been so many months apart; but while Mark was in London between Christmas and his departure for the North of England, Carrissima had been on a long visit to Devonshire.
"I didn't expect to meet you this evening," said Mark. "Phoebe told me in her letter last week that you were staying in Shropshire with Colonel Faversham."
"So I was," returned Carrissima. "But I never had the least intention to live there for the remainder of my life."
"She took us all completely by surprise," explained Phoebe, "by coming home the day before yesterday."
"I really cannot understand even now," said Lawrence, "why in the world you couldn't stay to return with father!"
"Oh well, it's an ill-wind that blows no one any good," cried Mark, while Carrissima sat with her eyes averted, hoping that nobody would suspect her actual object.
But she had known of his intention to depart for Paris the next morning, to spend a month with his old friend Wentworth before finally settling down in London. If she had waited for Colonel Faversham's return to Grandison Square she must, obviously, have missed Mark Driver again. One of the chief purposes of Carrissima's life seemed to be the disguise of motives, concerning which she scarcely knew whether she ought to feel ashamed or not.
"Well," suggested Lawrence, "we haven't heard why you didn't turn up in time."
"I hope I didn't keep you waiting," said Mark, at last shaking hands with his brother-in-law.
"Only half-an-hour!"
"You see," Mark explained, "I dined at Belloni's."
"Good gracious!" answered Lawrence, with evident annoyance, "if you could go to Belloni's, why in the world couldn't you come here as you promised?"
"I meant to come," said Mark, looking somewhat embarrassed, as he glanced at Carrissima. "You see, I went to Duffield's Hotel in Craven Street direct from the station. I thought I would just potter about and smoke a pipe or so till it was time to change."
"But you haven't changed!" exclaimed Lawrence, with a disapproving frown at Mark's blue serge jacket. It no doubt suited his long, athletic figure admirably; but, nevertheless, was very much out of place in present circumstances.
"No, of course not," said Mark. "The fact is I altered my mind. Instead of hanging about at Duffield's, I thought I would go to Golfney Place."
"What on earth for?"
"Oh well, to see Bridget, you know," answered Mark, and once more he glanced at Carrissima, whose eyes met his own.
CHAPTER II
MARK EXPLAINS
"Who is Bridget?" asked Phoebe, whereupon Mark swung round to face her, his hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets, his face slightly flushed.
"Miss Rosser," he said. "You remember Bridget Rosser, Phoebe! When we stayed at Crowborough four years ago."
"Five," suggested Lawrence, with his usual meticulous exactitude.
"You were not there," said Mark.
"But still," answered Lawrence, "I remember going down with father to look at the house before he made up his mind to take it."
"I recollect Bridget perfectly well," said Carrissima in her most cheerful tone. "Her father was David Rosser the novelist."
"He died in Paris about ten months ago," explained Mark, "and Bridget was his only daughter."
"A rather nice-looking girl, with reddish hair!" said Phoebe.
"The most wonderful hair!" exclaimed Mark. "I have never seen anything like it. Oh, she's wonderful altogether!"
"Where did you come across Miss Rosser again?" inquired Lawrence, while Carrissima wished that her cheeks would not tingle so uncomfortably.
"At the Old Masters' about three months ago--just after Christmas," replied Mark. "I had lately left Saint Josephine's, you know. I should never