He had fair hair, a long narrow face and sloping shoulders. Whether he was sitting down or standing up, there always seemed to be something stiff, self-important and formal about him. "Mark wasn't due at King's Cross until tea-time," said Phoebe, a pretty brunette, several inches taller than her husband and seven years younger. "I wanted him to sleep here to-night, and really I cannot imagine why he refused." "Not very complimentary to us," answered Lawrence, "to prefer to go to an hotel!" "And," Phoebe explained, "he is off to Paris to-morrow morning." "Well, I wish to goodness he would come soon if he's coming at all," grumbled Lawrence. "Oh, of course, he's certain to be here," urged Phoebe, not liking to begin dinner without her brother, who might provokingly arrive as soon as they sat down; while on the other hand, her three years' experience of married life had taught her that it was undesirable to keep Lawrence waiting. When half-past eight struck, however, she could restrain his impatience no longer; the three went to the dining-room, and Carrissima, with a sense of profound disappointment, sat down at the round table opposite the empty chair. Although Phoebe did her utmost to spin out the meal by eating with tantalizing and hygienic slowness, it ended without any sign of the absentee, and at last she felt bound to return to the drawing-room, where she was followed ten minutes later by Lawrence, who had stayed to smoke a cigarette. "The worst of it is," he said, standing before the fire, "you never know quite where you are with Mark." "I suppose," suggested Carrissima, "the simple fact of the matter is that he missed his train." "In that case," returned her brother, "surely he might have run 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.