ike
him. You don't want me to do anything, I suppose?"

"Oh, no--no!" he exclaimed, with almost unnecessary earnestness, and
looking even slightly embarrassed. "I only wished to know your opinion.
I value your opinion so very highly."

She got up to stir the fire. He sprang, or rather got, up too, rather
quickly, to forestall her. But she persisted.

"I know my poker so well," she said. "It will do things for me that it
won't do for anyone else. There! That is better."

She remained standing by the hearth, looking tremendously tall.

"I don't think I have an opinion," she said. "Beryl would be a brilliant
wife for any man. Mr. Craven seems a very pleasant boy. They might do
admirably together. Or they might both be perfectly miserable. I can't
tell. Now do tell me about Paris. Did you see Caroline Briggs?"

When Braybrooke left Berkeley Square that day he remembered having once
said to Craven that Lady Sellingworth was interested in everything that
was interesting except in love affairs, that she did not seem to care
about love affairs. And he had a vague feeling of having, perhaps, for
once done the wrong thing. Had he bored her? He hoped not. But he was
not quite sure.

When he had gone, and she was once more alone. Lady Sellingworth rang
the bell. A tall footman came in answer to it, and she told him that
if anyone else called he was to say, "not at home." As he was about to
leave the room after receiving this order she stopped him.

"Wait a moment."

"Yes, my lady."

She seemed to hesitate; then she said:

"If Mr. Craven happens to call I will see him. He was here two nights
ago. Do you know him by sight?"

"I can't say I do, my lady."

"Ah! You were not in the hall when he called the other day?"

"No, my lady."

"He is tall with dark hair, about thirty years old. Murgatroyd is not in
to-day, is he?"

"No, my lady."

"Then if anyone calls like the gentleman I have described just ask him
his name. And if it is Mr. Craven you can let him in."

"Yes, my lady."

The footman went out. A clock chimed in the distance, where the piano
stood behind the big azalea. It was half past five. Lady Sellingworth
made up the fire again, though it did not really need mending; then she
stood beside it with one narrow foot resting on the low fender, holding
her black dress up a little with her left hand.

Was Fate going to leave her alone? That was how she put it to herself.
Or was she once more to be the vict