became, for him, almost unbuttoned. Craven,
entertained by his elderly friend's unwonted exuberance, talked more
freely and a little more intimately to him than usual, and presently
alluded to the events of the previous night, and described his
expedition to Soho.

"D'you know the _Ristorante Bella Napoli_?" he asked Braybrooke.
"Vesuvius all over the walls, and hair-dressers playing Neapolitan
tunes?"

Braybrooke did not, but seemed interested, for he cocked his head to one
side, and looked almost volcanic for a moment over the tiny glass in
his hand. Craven described the restaurant, the company, the general
atmosphere, the Chianti and Toscanas, and, proceeding with artful
ingenuity, at last came to his climax--Lady Sellingworth and Miss Van
Tuyn in their corner with their feet on the sanded floor and a smoking
dish of Risotto alla Milanese before them.

"Adela Sellingworth in Soho! Adela Sellingworth in the midst of such a
society!" exclaimed the world's governess with unfeigned astonishment.
"What could have induced her--but to be sure, Beryl Van Tuyn is famous
for her escapades, and for bringing the most unlikely people into them.
I remember once in Paris she actually induced Madame Marretti to go
to--ha--ah!"

He pulled himself up short.

"These Martinis are surely very strong!" he murmured into his beard
reproachfully.

"I don't think so."

"My doctor tells me that all cocktails are rank poison. They set up
fermentation."

"In the mind?" asked Craven.

"No--no--in the--they cause indigestion, in fact. How poor Adela
Sellingworth must have hated it!"

"I don't think she did. She seemed quite at home. Besides, she has been
to many of the Paris cafes. She told me so."

"It must have been a long time ago. And in Paris it is all so different.
And you sat with them?"

Craven recounted the tale of the previous evening. When he came to the
Cafe Royal suggestion the world's governess looked really outraged.

"Adela Sellingworth at the Cafe Royal!" he said. "How could Beryl Van
Tuyn? And with a Bolshevik, a Turkish refugee--from Smyrna too!"

"There were the Georgians for chaperons."

"Georgians!" said Braybrooke, with almost sharp vivacity. "I really hate
that word. We are all subjects of King George. No one has a right to
claim a monopoly of the present reign. I--waiter, bring me two more dry
Martinis, please."

"Yes, sir."

"What was I saying? Oh, yes--about that preposterous claim of certain
gro