now more of him. That was all. Seymour Portman had liked
him, too, and had said so when the door had closed behind the young
couple, leaving the old couple to themselves. He would come again some
day, no doubt. And while she and Sir Seymour had remained by the fire
talking quietly together, in imagination she had seen those two,
linked by their youth--that wonderful bond--walking through the London
twilight, chattering gaily, laughing at trifling jokes, realizing their
freemasonry. And she had asked herself why it was that she could not
feel that other freemasonry--of age. Seymour Portman had loved her for
many years, loved her now, had never married because of her, would give
up anything in London just to be quietly with her, would marry her now,
ravaged though she was, worn, twice a widow, with a past behind her
which he must know about, and which was not edifying. And yet she could
not love him, partly, perhaps chiefly, because there was still rooted in
her that ineradicable passion--it must be that, even now, a passion--for
youth and the fascination of youth. When at last he had gone she had
felt unusually bitter for a few minutes, had asked herself, as human
beings ask themselves every day, the eternal why. "Why, why, why am I as
I am? Why can't I care for the suitable? Why can't I like the gift held
out to me? Why doesn't my soul age with my body? Why must I continue
to be lonely just because of the taint in my nature which forbids me to
find companionship in one who finds perfect companionship in me? Why--to
sum up--am I condemned eternally to be myself?"

There was no answer. The voice was not in the whirlwind. And presently
she had dismissed those useless, those damnable questions, which only
torture because they are never answered.

And then had come the night in Soho. And there for the first time since
they had known each other she had felt herself to be subtly involved in
a woman's obscure conflict with Beryl Van Tuyn. She was not conscious
of having taken up weapons. Nevertheless she had no doubt about the
conflict. And on her side any force brought into play against her
beautiful friend must have issued simply from her personality, from some
influence, perhaps from some charm, which she had not deliberately used.
(At least she thought she was being sincere with herself in telling
herself that.) Craven had been the cause of the conflict, and certainly
he had been fully aware of Beryl Van Tuyn's part in it.