"Mark's late as usual," exclaimed Lawrence, as his sister presently
sailed into the drawing-room. "Ten minutes past eight," he added,
taking her hand.

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.