Enter Bridget | Page 3

have recognized her, but she happened to drop her purse; I naturally picked it up, and then she asked whether my name wasn't Driver."
"Isn't Golfney Place chiefly lodging-houses?" asked Carrissima.
"Number Five is one, anyhow."
"Does Miss Rosser live with her mother?" suggested Phoebe.
"Mrs. Rosser died shortly after we left Crowborough," was the answer. "Then the house was given up. Bridget wandered about Europe with her father until his own death a little less than a year ago."
"Then," demanded Lawrence, "whom does she live with?"
"Oh, she's quite on her own."
"What is her age, for goodness' sake?"
"Upon my word, I don't know for certain," said Mark. "I couldn't very well inquire. I should say she's about the same age as Carrissima."
"As a matter of prosaic fact," answered Carrissima, forcing a smile, although she did not feel very cheerful at the moment, "she is a few months older."
"Well," Lawrence persisted, "after picking up the purse at the Old Masters', what was the next move in the game?"
Phoebe was beginning to look rather anxious. She realized that Mark was growing impatient under Lawrence's cross-examination--he was supposed to be a skilful cross-examiner. It was occasionally a little difficult to keep the peace between these two men, who were her dearest; with the exception, perhaps, of the little man up-stairs.
"Bridget asked me to call," said Mark, "or I asked whether I might. I forget which, and what in the world does it matter?"
"Anyhow, you went!"
"Why, of course," was the answer.
"Is Miss Rosser--is she hard up, by any chance?" asked Lawrence.
"Good Lord, no!" exclaimed Mark. "My dear fellow, you've got quite a wrong impression. Hard up! You've only to see her."
"No doubt," suggested Lawrence, "you have had numerous opportunities."
"Oh well," said Mark, with a shrug, "she was on her lonesome and so was I at the time. It was just before I went to Yorkshire, you know. Carrissima was in Devonshire and I was kicking my heels in idleness at Duffield's."
"It really was rather too bad," remarked Phoebe, "to go there this evening, considering that you were engaged to dine with us. Wasn't it, Carrissima?"
"Oh, it was shameful of you, Mark!" cried Carrissima, with a laugh.
"You understand how it was," he explained, taking a chair by her side. "I didn't mean to stay ten minutes. I thought I could get there and back comfortably in a taxi, and so I should, but----"
"The temptation proved too strong for you," suggested Lawrence.
"I don't know what you mean by 'temptation,'" retorted Mark, while Phoebe tried to catch her husband's eye. "Bridget was most awfully pleased to see me. She had a fit of the blues for some reason or other."
"Is she liable to that sort of thing?" asked Lawrence.
"Not a bit of it," said Mark enthusiastically. "She's just about the brightest girl you have ever seen in your life. That was what made it the more upsetting. I felt I must do something to cheer her up."
"So you took her to Belloni's!" said Lawrence. "They do you uncommonly well at Belloni's."
"Anyhow," Mark admitted, "they gave us some ripping Burgundy. I got away directly we finished dinner," he continued, "and I knew Phoebe wouldn't mind."
"Well," said Lawrence, in response to her warning frown, "now you're here, suppose we have a game at bridge."
CHAPTER III
BRIDGET
To put the matter plainly, Carrissima was jealous.
It was half-past eleven when she reached her father's house at Number 13, Grandison Square, S.W., and she felt pleased to find that the fire was still alight in the drawing-room. Having told the butler that he need not sit up any longer, she threw off her long cloak, leaned back in an easy-chair right in front of the grate, crossed her feet on the fender, and clasped her miniature waist.
Remembering Bridget Rosser, with her vivid chestnut-coloured hair, her somewhat pale skin, her wonderful eyes (as Mark quite justifiably described them), her face, which was extraordinarily attractive, although it might not contain one perfect feature, Carrissima could not help feeling that there might be serious cause for jealousy.
Of course, it was evident that Mark had not expected to find her at Charteris Street; he had believed she was still at Church Stretton with Colonel Faversham, and perhaps, if he had been aware of her presence in London, Lawrence might not have had to wait for his dinner. Moreover, Mark Driver was precisely the kind of man who would go out of his way to do any woman a good turn--pretty or plain; but still, after making every allowance, the fact remained that Carrissima was jealous.
It had for long been an open question (in her own mind at least) whether he cared for her or not. If he did, she would have liked to know why he had waited so long before putting his fate to the touch, although the matter was again