m, and he agreed with her and instanced a certain old
duchess who, at the age of eighty, was preparing for a tour round
the world when influenza stepped in and carried her off, to the great
vexation of Thomas Cook and Son.

"We must remember that that duchess was an American," observed Sir
Seymour.

"You mean that we Americans are more determined not to cease than you
English?" she asked. "That we are very persistent?"

"Don't you think so?"

"Perhaps we are."

She turned and laid a hand gently, almost caressingly, on Lady
Sellingworth's.

"I shall persist until I get you over to Paris," she said. "I do want
you to see my apartment, and my bronzes--particularly my bronzes. When
were you last in Paris?"

"Passing through or staying--do you mean?"

"Staying."

Lady Sellingworth was silent for an instant, and Craven saw the half
sad, half mocking expression in her eyes.

"I haven't stayed in Paris for ten years," she said.

She glanced at Sir Seymour, who slightly bent his curly head as if in
assent.

"It's almost incredible, isn't it, Mr. Craven?" said Miss Van Tuyn. "So
unlike the man who expressed a wish to be buried in Paris."

Craven remembered at that moment Braybrooke's remark in the club that
Lady Sellingworth's jewelry were stolen in Paris at the Gare du Nord ten
years ago. Did Miss Van Tuyn know about that? He wondered as he murmured
something non-committal.

Miss Van Tuyn now tried to extract a word of honour promise from Lady
Sellingworth to visit her in Paris, where, it seemed, she lived very
independently with a _dame de compagnie_, who was always in one room
with a cold reading the novels of Paul Bourget. ("Bourget keeps on
writing for _her_!" the gay girl said, not without malice.)

But Lady Sellingworth evaded her gently.

"I'm too lazy for Paris now," she said. "I no longer care for moving
about. This old town house of mine has become to me like my shell. I'm
lazy, Beryl; I'm lazy. You don't know what that is; nor do you, Mr.
Craven. Even you, Seymour, you don't know. For you are a man of action,
and at Court there is always movement. But I, my friends--" She gave
Craven a deliciously kind yet impersonal smile. "I am a contemplative.
There is nothing oriental about me, but I am just a quiet British
contemplative, untouched by the unrest of your age."

"But it's _your_ age, too!" cried Miss Van Tuyn.

"No, dear. I was an Edwardian."

"I wish I had known you then!" said Miss Van Tu