Mr. Lawrence Faversham, barrister-at-law, was thirty-two years of age,
and rather short, although he always held his head in the air as if he
were doing his best to appear taller. Hearing the street door bell
ring, Mrs. Lawrence Faversham waylaid Carrissima on the stairs and
insisted on taking her to gaze at little Victor, aged two, peacefully
sleeping in the nursery.
"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.
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