to put me off, although I believe his
chief objection was that they had a hatred of tobacco."

"Still," said Carrissima, "I don't suppose you are a confirmed smoker
and they might be good for you. I don't think I am Early Victorian,
but still----"

"Oh, I know!" cried Bridget; "but fancy wasting any little sweetness
one may possess on the desert air of Sandbay. I should simply go
mad--stark, staring mad. Carrissima," she continued, "I suppose you
know heaps and heaps of people. So did I when my father was
alive--people who do things, whose names you read in the papers, who
think for themselves and make others follow their lead. Oh, I long to
be in the movement!"

Rising slowly from her chair, and with perfect coolness, she took a
framed cabinet photograph from a table between the windows.

"Is this Colonel Faversham?" she asked. "I remember him now quite
distinctly."

The portrait showed a man of middle height, rather taller than
Lawrence, with much broader shoulders. His face had an almost
dissipated expression, and he wore a large, pointed moustache. His
hair was still plentiful, although it had been grey when Bridget last
saw him; his eyes were somewhat prominent, and he held himself
unusually erect.

"How old is your father?" asked Bridget.

"Sixty-five," was the answer.

"He doesn't look so old!"

"Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to hear you say that!"
cried Carrissima. "But the photograph was taken some years ago."

"Have you only one brother?" asked Bridget.

"Only one living. I had another brother and a sister. They came
between me and Lawrence, and died a long time ago."

"I love looking at photographs," said Bridget, putting that of Colonel
Faversham back in its place. "I hope you don't mind--whose is this?"
she inquired, taking up another frame.

"Oh, that is Jimmy!" cried Carrissima.

"Why do you laugh?" said Bridget.

"I really don't quite know. There's nothing very comical in his
appearance, is there? Only somehow one does laugh about him."

"I think," said Bridget, "he is one of the pleasantest-looking men I
have ever seen."

"Yes, Jimmy has a nice face," returned Carrissima.

"Of course," Bridget continued, with her eyes still on the photograph,
"it isn't so distinctly handsome as Mark's."

"Perhaps not," was the answer; "I thought you had seen him while we
were at Crowborough. Mr. Clynesworth. Although his name is Rupert
everybody has called him Jim