CHAPTER X
CONFIDENCES
Mark Driver, having dined at Duffield's Hotel, set out, with a cigar between his lips, to Golfney Place. In the Strand he hailed a taxi-cab, and his arrival obviously took Bridget completely by surprise. She had always an alluring, seductive way with her, and now, unaware of his return from Paris, she rose almost impulsively from her chair, and came to meet him with such an air of abandon that he thought for the moment she intended to fling herself incontinently into his arms.
Bridget looked peculiarly fresh and fragrant this evening in the light morning frock, which she had not troubled to change for her solitary dinner. It was almost impossible that any man of Mark's age should not feel flattered and pleased by her satisfaction at the sight of him.
"Oh, how glad I am!" she exclaimed, holding both his hands so tightly that it would have been difficult to withdraw them if he wished. Her frock was touching his coat as she stood gazing into his face. "Such a dreadfully long time, Mark!" she continued. "I hope you are going to stay in London at last."
"Yes, all my wanderings are over," he answered.
"Do sit down," she said, releasing his hands. "I hope the room isn't too hot. I have a fire chiefly for company's sake, you know."
"Have you been feeling dull?" he asked, sitting down at one end of the large sofa, while she sank on to the other.
"Only during the evenings," she explained. "I sit here by myself night after night. I try to read, but gradually my thoughts wander, and I'm back at home again. Home is always the dear old house at Crowborough."
"Well now," said Mark, "what have you been doing all these weeks?"