alone
in that beautiful house. I know she does."

"Has she told you so?"

"Good heavens--no. But she never would."

"She need not be alone," observed Braybrooke. "She could have a
companion to-morrow."

"I can't imagine her with a Fanny Cronin."

"I don't mean a _dame de compagnie_. I mean a husband."

Craven's ardent blue eyes looked a question.

"Seymour Portman is always there waiting and hoping."

"Sir Seymour?" cried Craven.

"Well, why not?" said Braybrooke, almost with severity. "Why not?"

"But his age!"

The world's governess, who was older than Sir Seymour, though not a soul
knew it, looked more severe.

"His age would be in every way suitable to Adele Sellingworth's," he
said firmly.

"Oh, but--"

"Go on!"

"I can't see an old man like Sir Seymour as _her_ husband. Oh, no! It
wouldn't do. She would never marry such an old man. I am certain of
that."

Braybrooke pinched his lips together and felt for his beard.

"I hope," he said, lifting and lowering his bushy eyebrows, "I hope, at
any rate, she will never be so foolish as to marry a man who is what
is called young. That would be a terrible mistake, both for her and
for him. Now I really must be going. I am dining to-night rather early
with--oh, by the way, it is with one of your chiefs--Eric Learington.
A good fellow--a good fellow! We are going to some music afterwards at
Queen's Hall. Good-bye. I'm very glad you realize Adela Sellingworth's
great distinction and charm. But--" He paused, as if considering
something carefully; then he added:

"But don't forget that she and Seymour Portman would be perfectly
suitable to one another. She is a delightful creature, but she is no
longer a young woman. But I need not tell you that."

And having thus done the needless thing he went away, walking with a
certain unwonted self-consciousness which had its source solely in dry
Martinis.

CHAPTER III

Craven realized that he had "given himself away" directly Braybrooke was
gone. The two empty glasses stood on a low table in front of his chair.
He looked at them and for an instant was filled with anger against
himself. To be immortal--he was old-fashioned enough to believe
surreptitiously in his own immortality--and yet to be deflected from
the straight path of good sense by a couple of dry Martinis! It was
humiliating, and he raged against himself.

Braybrooke had certainly gone away thinking that he, Craven, had fallen
in love with L