Clarice found it rather a new and quaint experience to be in the company of a smart chauffeur, driving through the brilliantly lighted streets of the metropolis. To keep up her assumed character she lighted a cigarette, and really enjoyed the situation. Hastings seemed to be of a reticent turn of mind, as he only made a few short remarks about the running of the car, and carefully attended to his business. Clarice was glad, as she would not have known what to say, had the man been talkative. And she knew that Ferdy must have been in the habit of chattering to the chauffeur, from the remark Hastings made when the brougham stopped before a door in Saracen Square, where Zara dwelt. "You're very quiet to-night, Mr. Baird," said the man, smiling. "I expect you'd rather have been inside the machine." Clarice stared haughtily at the familiarity of this speech, and Hastings looked rather puzzled. Ferdy apparently was very free and easy with Zara's servants. But there was no time to consider the matter, for Zara stepped out of the brougham, and bustled her mother up the stairs in a hurry. Mrs. Dumps was in tears, and took no notice of the supposed Ferdy. A waiting maid-servant took Clarice's coat, and ushered her into a tiny drawing-room, where the irritated girl found several portraits of Ferdy, smiling and debonair. "She must love him," thought the outraged sister, and glanced in the mirror over the fireplace to see how her disguise looked. In this dimly-lighted room, where the red-shaded lamps gave out rosy hues, Clarice thought that Zara would never find her out. She looked exactly like Ferdy, and had imposed successfully on the barmaid, on Mrs. Dumps, and on the chauffeur, so she had little fear of carrying her adventure to a successful conclusion. Shortly Zara entered in a maize-coloured tea-gown, but no longer in a bad temper. Indeed, from the pallor of her face, she seemed to have received a shock. Clarice immediately guessed that Mrs. Dumps had been conversing about Osip in the brougham. It seemed to her that Zara, after all, might not have known the truth about the man. "Open a bottle of fizz, Ferdy," said Zara, throwing herself on a sofa, "and give me some. I shan't eat any supper. You can if you like. I ought to open these, I suppose," she glanced at some letters lying on a small bamboo table near at hand, "but I can't be bothered. Give me the fizz quick, Ferdy, or I'll faint." Clarice had, rather awkwardly, opened a pint bottle of champagne, and handed Zara a glass. "Are you tired?" she asked, with pretended sympathy, and anxious to make the girl talk. Zara drank off the wine before replying, and nodded. "I'm tired and worried," she said, handing back the glass; "come and sit down beside me, Ferdy. We must have a talk." "Your mother--"