world's governess, looking immensely
relieved.

"I escorted her to Berkeley Square."

"Good! good!"

"But we walked to the door of the Cafe Royal."

"What--down Shaftesbury Avenue?"

"Yes!"

"Past the Cafe Monico and--Piccadilly Circus?"

"Yes!"

"What time was it?"

"Well after ten."

"Very unsuitable! I must say that--very unsuitable! That corner by the
Monico at night is simply chock-a-block--I--I should say, teems, that's
the word--teems with people whom nobody knows or could ever wish to
know. Beryl Van Tuyn should really be more careful. She grows quite
reckless. And Adela Sellingworth is so tall and unmistakable. I do hope
nobody saw her."

"I'm afraid scores of people did!"

"No, no! I mean people she knows--women especially."

"I don't think she would care."

"Her friends would care _for_ her!" retorted Braybrooke, almost
severely. "To retire from life is all very well. I confess I think it a
mistake. But that is merely one man's opinion. But to retire from life,
a great life such as hers was, and then after ten years to burst forth
into--into the type of existence represented by Shaftesbury Avenue
and the Cafe Royal, that would be unheard of, and really almost
unforgivable."

"It would, in fact, be old wildness," said Craven, with a faint touch of
sarcasm.

"Old wildness! What a very strange expression!"

"But I think it covers the suggested situation. And we know what old
wildness is--or if we don't some of the 'old guard' can teach us. But
Lady Sellingworth will never be the one to give us such a horrible
lesson. If there is a woman in London with true dignity, dignity of the
soul, she has it. She has almost too much of it even. I could almost
wish she had less."

Braybrooke looked suddenly surprised and then alertly observant.

"Less dignity?" he queried, after a slight but significant pause.

"Yes."

"But can a _grande dame_, as she is, ever have too much dignity of the
soul?"

"I think even such a virtue as that can be carried to morbidity. It may
become a weapon against the happiness of the one who has it. Those who
have no dignity are disgusting. As Lady Sellingworth said to me, they
create nausea--"

"Nausea!" interrupted Braybrooke, in an almost startled voice.

"Yes--in others. But those who have too much dignity wrap themselves up
in a secret reserve, and reserve shuts out natural happiness, I think,
and creates loneliness. I'm sure Lady Sellingworth feels terribly