s he was rung up by Lady
Sellingworth, hung on the edge of disappointment for an instant, and
then was caught back into happiness.

When he finally left the telephone and went to his bedroom to change his
clothes, but not to "dress," he thanked God for having clinched matters
so swiftly. Lady Sellingworth had certainly meant to let him down. Some
instinct had told him what to say to her to make her change her mind.
At least, he supposed so. For she had abruptly changed her mind after
hearing of Miss Van Tuyn's invitation. But why had she meant to give up
the dinner? What had happened between his exit from her house and her
ringing him up? For he could not believe in the excuse of ill-health
put forward by her. He was puzzled. Women certainly were difficult to
understand. But it was all right now. His audacity--for he thought it
rather audacious of him to have asked Lady Sellingworth to dine alone
with him at the _Bella Napoli_--was going to be rewarded. As he changed
his clothes he hummed to himself:

"_O Napoli! Bella Napoli_!"

At Claridge's meanwhile Miss Van Tuyn was not humming. As she came away
from the telephone she felt in a very bad temper. Things were not going
well for her just now in London, and she was accustomed to things going
well. As in Craven's letter, so just now at the telephone, she had been
aware of resistance, of a distinct holding back from her influence.
This was a rare experience for her, and she resented it. She believed
Craven's excuse for not dining with her. It was incredible that a
young man who had nothing to do would refuse to pass an evening in her
company. No; he was engaged. But she had felt at the telephone that
he was not sorry he was engaged; she still felt it. He was going to do
something which he preferred doing to dining with her. The tell-tale
line showed itself in her low white forehead.

Fanny Cronin had gone to bed; otherwise they might have dined downstairs
in the restaurant, where they would have been sure of meeting people
whom Miss Van Tuyn knew. She did not choose to go down and dine alone.
A lonely dinner followed by a lonely evening upstairs did not appeal to
her; for a moment, like Lady Sellingworth in Berkeley Square, she felt
the oppression of solitude. She went to the window of her sitting-room,
drew the curtain back, pulled aside the blind, and looked out. The night
was going to be fine; the sky was clear and starry; the London outside
drew her. For a moment