Fortunate is the man who may count upon one sympathetic listener, too deeply interested in his most ordinary experiences for boredom; prepared to take his side (with or without justification) against the world. So it had always been with Carrissima. Of any scheme, any opinion, any ambition of his, she invariably tended to think the best. If ever he accomplished anything more meritorious than usual, she was always the first to be told; and when he happened to make a mistake, she would be certain to make light of it. At nine o'clock on Tuesday morning Mark had an appointment round the corner in Beaumont Street. Mr. Randolph Messeter had a serious operation to perform at a nursing home, and Mark was to administer the anaesthetic. All had gone well; he had returned to Weymouth Street, and was in the act of putting away his apparatus, when the telephone bell rang. He was wanted immediately by Lady Scones, in Burnham Crescent, S.W. Sir Wilford Scones had been one of Doctor Harefield's most lucrative patients, and naturally Mark felt gratified by the summons. A rapid examination showed that the patient was seriously ill, and having telephoned for a trained nurse and written a prescription, Mark left the house, with a promise to come again during the afternoon. On his way home after this second visit at about four o'clock, he walked past the end of Golfney Place, and, a few yards farther on, saw a motor-car in which was seated Bridget. As he lifted his hat, she called to the chauffeur to stop, and seeing she was bent on getting out, Mark could scarcely do less than open the door. "What a stranger!" she cried, holding out her hand. "Weeks and weeks since you came to see me! Anyhow, you must come now." "Sorry," said Mark, "but, upon my word, I haven't much time to spare----" "You won't want much," she insisted. "It's no use, Mark! You've got to be nice and reasonable, and you must just come in." Taking out her purse, she paid the chauffeur--in gold, as Mark could not help seeing, and, judging by the expression of the man's face, adding an unusually liberal tip. Without any more excuses, Mark accompanied her along the secluded street, and, on reaching Number 5, Bridget admitted him with her latch-key. "Where do you think I have been?" she asked, throwing off her cloak as soon as she entered the sitting-room. "I don't see how I can guess without something more to guide me," said Mark, as she went to the looking-glass, drew some monstrous-headed pins from her hat, and began to arrange her hair, patting it here, pulling it there, while Mark admired its quantity and colour. "Oh, how the wind has made my cheeks burn," she cried, pressing her palms against them. "You know how one pines for woods and pastures at this time of year!" she continued. "A kind of nostalgia! Directly after breakfast I sent Miller for a motor-car from the garage in the next street, and I went to Crowborough." "Alone?" asked Mark.