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