tinction of her friend
there could be no doubt; and the prestige of a once-famous woman of the
world, and of a formerly great beauty whose name would have its place
in the annals of King Edward the Seventh, still lingered about the
now-faded recluse of Berkeley Square. But till this moment Miss Van Tuyn
had never thought of Lady Sellingworth as a possible rival to herself.

Even now when the idea presented itself to her she was inclined to
dismiss it as too absurd for consideration. And yet Craven had not come
back, although he must know she was expecting him.

Perhaps Lady Sellingworth had made him go in against his will.

Miss Van Tuyn remembered the photograph she had seen at Mrs. Ackroyd's.
That woman had the face of one who was on the watch for new lovers. And
does a woman ever change? Only that very night she herself had said to
Craven, as they walked from Soho to Regent Street, that she had a theory
of the changelessness of character. Or perhaps she had really meant
of temperament. She had even said that she believed that the Lady
Sellingworth of to-day was to all intents and purposes the Lady
Sellingworth of yesterday and of the other days of her past. If that
were so--and she had meant what she had said--then in the white-haired
woman, who seemed now indifferent to admiration and leagues removed from
vanity, there still dwelt a woman on the pounce.

Young Craven was very good-looking, and there was something interesting
about his personality. His casual manner, which was nevertheless very
polite, was attractive. His blue eyes and black hair gave him an almost
romantic appearance. He was very quiet, but was certainly far from being
cold. And he undoubtedly understood a great deal, and must have had many
experiences of which he never talked. Miss Van Tuyn was subtle enough
to know that he was subtle too. She had made up her mind to explore his
subtlety. And now someone else was exploring it in Berkeley Square.
The line reappeared in her low white forehead, and her cult for Lady
Sellingworth, like flannel steeped in water, underwent a shrinking
process. She felt strongly the indecency of grasping old age. And
through her there floated strange echoes of voices which had haunted
Lady Sellingworth's youth, voices which had died away long ago in
Berkeley Square, but which are captured by succeeding generations of
women, and which persist through the ages, finding ever new dwellings.

The night was growing late, bu