She had dropped back into the habit which had prevailed so long, and was once more regulating her demeanour with a fervent desire to deceive.  She was convinced of one fact at the least.  She had counted her chicks before they were hatched; it appeared impossible, in the face of what she had witnessed, that Mark could entertain the shadow of a regard for her.  Still, it was obvious that he knew nothing more about Bridget’s movements than Jimmy or Colonel Faversham, who made a valiant effort to change the subject by asking Mark whether he had anything to do.  As it happened, he was quite busy in his incipient way.  Sir Wilford Scones was seriously ill, and Randolph Messeter had been called in for a consultation.  There would probably be an operation before the week ended.  With the deliberate intention of creating a favourable impression on the colonel, for whose daughter’s hand he was on the point of asking, Mark explained that Harefield’s practice was turning out far better than could have been expected.  Now and then he glanced significantly at Carrissima, who might have bidden him “good-bye” very happily if Bridget Rosser had never entered her life.

The next morning, at about twelve o’clock, Mark was in his consulting-room when Jimmy was announced.  Sybil had seen him leave Upper Grosvenor Street with considerable misgiving, dreading lest his interview with Mark should lead to trouble with Carrissima.  She sighed to remember his scepticism about Bridget’s backsliding, and felt confident that her brother was on his way to a very painful ordeal.

Jimmy, for his own part, had scarcely attempted to explain the discrepancy between Sybil’s story and his own ideal of Bridget.  Otherwise he might, perhaps, have come to the conclusion that Carrissima had exaggerated, while Sybil had added a little more ghastly colour.  Sybil was sometimes given to that kind of trick.

That Mark was nothing to Bridget, never had been anything to her, Jimmy felt certain.  Driver had, indeed, dropped so completely out of her life that it had not seemed worth while to take the trouble to go to Weymouth Street in the hope of discovering a clue to her present abiding-place.  In any case, Jimmy reached the house this Monday morning with a conviction that the scandalous fiction would at once be exploded.

He came to the point at once.

“Rather an unpleasant business has brought me here, Mark,” he exclaimed.  “To begin with, there’s one thing I want to say.  Understand I believe the whole story is a canard.”

“What story?” asked Mark, sitting in his swivel-chair on one side of the leather-topped writing-table, while Jimmy stood a foot from the other.

“Of course,” Jimmy continued, “I know there’s not a grain of truth in it.  Still when such an abominable accusation has been made, it’s just as well to lose no time in scotching it.”