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.