And he had
shown quiet determination, willfulness even. That willfulness of his had
pleased Lady Sellingworth more than anything had pleased her for a
very long time. It had even touched her. At first she had thought
that perhaps it had been prompted by chivalry, by something charmingly
old-fashioned, and delicately gentlemanly in Craven. Later on she had
been glad--intimately, warmly glad--to be quite sure that something more
personal had guided him in his conduct that night.

He had simply preferred her company to the company of Beryl Van Tuyn.
She was woman enough to rejoice in that fact. It was even rather
wonderful to her. And it had given Craven a place in her estimation
which no one had had for ten years.

Beryl's pressure upon him had been very definite. She had practically
told him, and asked him, to do a certain thing--to finish the evening
with her. And he had practically denied her right to command, and
refused her request. He had preferred to the Georgians and their lively
American contemporary, sincerely preferred, an Edwardian.

The compliment was the greater because the Edwardian had not encouraged
him. Indeed in a way he had really defied her as well as Beryl Van Tuyn.

She had loved his defiance. When he had flatly told her he did not
intend to go back to the Cafe Royal she had felt thankful to him--just
that. And just before his almost boyish remark, made with genuine
vexation in his voice, about the driving of London chauffeurs had given
her a little happy thrill such as she had not known for years.

She had not had the heart to leave him on her doorstep.

But now, standing by the fire, she knew that it would have been safer to
have left him there. And it would be safer now to ring the bell, summon
the footman, and say that she was not at home to anyone that afternoon.
While she was thinking this the footman entered the room. Hearing him
she turned sharply.

"What is it?"

"Sir Seymour Portman has called, my lady. I told him you were not at
home. But he asked me to make quite sure."

Lady Sellingworth hesitated. After a moment's pause she said, in a dry
voice:

"Not at home."

The footman went out.

There are moments in life which are full of revelation. That was such
a moment for Lady Sellingworth. When she had heard the door open her
instinct had played her false. She had turned sharply feeling certain
that Craven had called. The reaction she felt when she heard the name of
Sir Seym