es thoroughly, but they usually know
very well whether they have finally got the better of a once dominating
tendency or vice, or whether there is still a possibility of their
becoming again its victim. In complete victory there is a knowledge
which nothing can shake from its throne. That knowledge Lady
Sellingworth had never possessed. She hoped, but she did not know. For
sometimes, though very seldom, the old wildness seemed to stir within
her like a serpent uncoiling itself after its winter's sleep. Then she
was frightened and made a great effort, an effort of fear. She set her
heel on the serpent, and after a time it lay still. Sometimes, too, the
loneliness of her life in her spacious and beautiful house became almost
intolerable to her. This was especially the case at night. She did not
care to show a haggard and lined face and white hair to her world when
it was at play. And though she had defied the "old guard," she did not
love meeting all those women whom she knew so well, and who looked so
much younger and gayer than she did. So she had many lonely evenings
at home, when her servants were together below stairs, and she had for
company only the fire and a book.

The dinner in Soho had been quite an experience for her, and though she
had taken it so simply and casually, had seemed so thoroughly at home
and in place with her feet on the sanded floor, eating to the sound of
guitars, she had really been inwardly excited. And when she had looked
up and seen Craven gazing towards her she had felt an odd thrill at the
heart. For she had known Italy, too, as well as she had know Paris, and
had memories connected with Italy. And the guitars had spoken to her of
days and nights which her will told her not to think of any more.

And now? Was Fate going to leave her alone? Or was she once more going
to be attacked? Something within her, no doubt woman's instinct, scented
danger.

Braybrooke's visit had disturbed her. She had known him for years, and
knew the type of man he was--careful, discreet, but often very busy. He
had a kind heart, but a brain which sometimes wove little plots. On the
whole he was a sincere man, except, of course, sometimes socially, but
now and then he found it necessary to tell little lies. Had he told her
a little lie that day about young Craven and Beryl Van Tuyn? Had he been
weaving the first strands of a little plot--a plot like a net--and was
it his intention to catch her in it? She knew he