although he was dressed in a smart country suit made
evidently by a first-rate London tailor. There was something faintly
exotic about his eyes, and his way of holding himself and moving, which
suggested to Lady Sellingworth either Spain or South America. She was
not quite sure which. He gave her a long look as he went by, and she
felt positive that he turned to glance after her when he had passed her.
But this she never knew, as naturally she did not turn her head.

"What an extraordinarily good-looking man that was!" said the Duchess
of Wellingborough. "I wonder who he is. If--," and she mentioned a
well-known Spanish duke, "had a brother that might be the man. Do you
know who he is?"

"No," said Lady Sellingworth.

"Well, he must know who you are."

"Why?"

"He seemed deeply interested in you."

Lady Sellingworth wanted to say that a young man might possibly be
deeply interested in her without knowing who she was. But she did not
say it. It was not worth while. And she knew the duchess had not meant
to be ill-mannered.

She lunched with the duchess that day in Grosvenor Square, and met
several of the "old guard" whom she knew very well, disastrously well.
After lunch the duchess alluded to the brown man they had met in Bond
Street, described him minutely, and asked if anyone knew him. Nobody
knew him. But after the description everyone wanted to know him. It was
generally supposed that he must be one of the strangers from distant
countries who are perpetually flocking to London.

"We shall probably all know him in a week or two," said someone. "A man
of that type is certain to have brought introductions."

"If he has brought one for Adela I'm sure he'll deliver that first,"
said the duchess, with her usual almost boisterous good humour.

And thereupon she told the "old guard" of the stranger's evident
interest in Lady Sellingworth.

Although she completely concealed it, Lady Sellingworth felt decided
interest in the brown man. The truth was that his long and ardent--yet
somehow not impudently ardent--look at her had stirred the dust and
ashes in her heart. It was as if a little of the dust rose and floated
away, as if some of the ashes crumbled into a faint grey powder which
was almost nothingness.

At that moment she was in the dangerous mood when a woman of her type
will give herself to almost any distraction which promises a possible
adventure, or which holds any food for her almost starving vanity