her mind. Yet the undisciplined mind can work
havoc in the tissues of the body. Youth of the mind, if preserved, helps
the body to continue apparently young. It may not be able to cause the
body actually to look young, but in some mysterious way it throws round
the body a youthful atmosphere which deceives many people, which creates
an illusion. And the strange thing is that the more intimate people are
with one possessing that mental youthfulness, the more strong is the
illusion upon them. Atmosphere has a spell which increases upon us
the longer we remain bathed in it. Lady Sellingworth said all this to
herself that night, and rebuked herself for letting her mind go towards
old age. She rebelled against the longing for complete peace of mind
because she now connected such a longing with stagnation. And men,
especially young men, love vivacity, restlessness, the swift flying
temperament. Such a temperament suggests to them youth. It is old age
which sits still. Youth is for ever on the move.

"I must not long for peace or anything of that kind!" she said to
herself.

Nevertheless the lack of all mental peace ravages the body.

She scarcely knew what to do for the best. But eventually she tried
to take her mind in hand, for she was afraid of it, afraid of its age,
afraid of the effect its age might eventually have upon her appearance.
So she strove to train it backwards towards youthfulness. For now
she was sure that she was not one of those fortunate women who have
naturally young minds which refuse to grow old. She knew a few such
women. She envied them almost bitterly. There was no need for them to
strive. She watched them surreptitiously, studied them, tried to master
their secret.

Presently a tragic episode occurred in her life.

She fell in love with a man of about twenty-three. He was the son of
people whom she knew very well in Paris, French people who were almost
her contemporaries, and was the sporting type of Frenchman, very
good-looking, lively, satirical and strong. He was a famous lawn tennis
player and came over to London for the tournament at Wimbledon. She had
already seen him in Paris, and had known him when he was little more
than a boy. But she had never thought much about him in those days. For
in those days she had not been haunted by the passion for youth which
possessed her now.

Louis de Rocheouart visited at her house as a matter of course, was
agreeable and gallant to her because she w