ask him to come up."

The footman went out, and Lady Sellingworth went to sit down near the
fire. She now looked exactly as usual, casual, indifferent, but kind,
not at all like a woman who would ever pity herself. In a moment the
footman announced "Mr. Craven," and Craven walked in with an eager but
slightly anxious expression on his face.

"I know it is much too late for a visit," he said. "But I thought I
might perhaps just speak to you."

"Of course. I hear you have a message for me. Is it from Beryl?"

He looked surprised.

"Miss Van Tuyn? I haven't seen her."

"Yes?"

"I only wanted--I wondered whether, if you are not doing anything
to-night, I could persuade you to give me a great pleasure. . . . Could
I?"

"But what is it?"

"Would you dine with me at the _Bella Napoli_?"

Lady Sellingworth thought of the shop girls again, but now how
differently!

"I would come and call for you just before eight. It's a fine night.
It's dry, and it will be clear and starry."

"You want me to walk?"

He slightly reddened.

"Or shall we dress and go in a taxi?" he said.

"No, no. But I haven't said I can come."

His face fell.

"I will come," she said. "And we will walk. But what would Mr.
Braybrooke say?"

"Have you seen him? Has he told you?"

"What?"

"About our conversation in the club?"

"I have seen him, and I don't think he is quite pleased about
Shaftesbury Avenue. But never mind. I cannot live to please Mr.
Braybrooke. _Au revoir_. Just before eight."

When he had gone Lady Sellingworth again looked in the glass.

"But it's impossible!" she said to herself. "It's impossible!"

She hated her face at that moment, and could not help bitterly
regretting the fierce impulse of ten years ago. If she had not yielded
to that impulse she might now have been looking, not at a young woman
certainly, but a woman well preserved. Now she was frankly a wreck.
She would surely look almost grotesque dining alone with young Craven.
People would think she was his grandmother. Perhaps it would be better
not to go. She was filled with a sense of painful hesitation. She came
away from the glass. No doubt Craven was "on the telephone." She might
communicate with him, tell him not to come, that she had changed her
mind, did not feel very well. He would not believe her excuse whatever
it was, but that could not be helped. Anything was better than to make
a spectacle of herself in a restaurant. She had not put Cra