"I hope not," murmured Bridget, standing by the side of his chair.
"How many times have you met him since that afternoon at my house?" asked Colonel Faversham.
"Only once besides to-day!"
"He took that book," was the answer, "simply for the sake of bringing it back! I hate anything underhanded."
"But he isn't!" Bridget insisted. "He said that was his reason."
"Barefaced!" shouted the colonel. "The fact is Jimmy Clynesworth has never been the same since his sunstroke. Bridget," he added, "I should like to keep you entirely to myself. I should like——"
What his precise desire might be Bridget was not destined on the present occasion to hear. He suddenly stopped in the middle of his sentence, gazing at her with horror and alarm in his face. Covering hers, she had incontinently broken down, and her body shook with the violence of her sobs. Colonel Faversham found his feet so hastily that he could not suppress an exclamation as he stooped to rub his knee. He knew neither what to say nor how to act.
"What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Tell me what it is. Only let me know. What more can a man ask?"
"Oh, it is nothing," said Bridget amidst her tears. "Only that I am the most miserable woman in the world."
Although he did his best, he could not succeed in tranquilizing her, and finally went away, leaving her in the most despondent mood. Alone in his smoking-room the same evening, Colonel Faversham did his utmost to arrive at some explanation of Bridget's passionate outburst of grief.