aying "O Sole mio!" And as the music grew more
distinct in her ears she felt more solitary, more injured and more
ill-humoured. Music of that type makes youth feel that the world ought
of right to belong to it, that the old are out of place in the regions
of adventure, romance and passion. That they should not hang about where
they are no longer wanted, like beggars about the door of a house in
which happy people are feasting.

"Such music is for me not for Adela Sellingworth," thought Miss Van
Tuyn. "Let her listen to Bach and Beethoven, or to Brahms if she likes.
She can have the classics and the intellectuals. But the songs of Naples
are for me, not for her."

And at that moment she felt very hard, even cruel.

She came up to the restaurant. The window was lighted up brilliantly. No
blind was drawn over it. There was opaque glass at the bottom, but not
at the top. She was tall and could look through the glass at the top.
She did so, and at once saw Lady Sellingworth and Craven.

They were sitting at _her_ table--the table which was always reserved
for her when she dined at the _Bella Napoli_, and at which she had
entertained Lady Sellingworth; and they were talking--confidentially,
eagerly, she thought. Lady Sellingworth looked unusually happy and
animated, even perhaps a little younger than usual. Yes! Very old, but
younger than usual! They were not eating at the moment, but were no
doubt waiting for a course. Craven was leaning forward to his companion.
The guitars still sounded. But these two had apparently so much to say
to one another that they had neither time or inclination to listen to
the music.

Miss Van Tuyn stood very still on the pavement staring into the
restaurant.

But suddenly Craven, as if attracted by something, turned abruptly half
round towards the window. Instantly Miss Van Tuyn moved away. He could
not have seen her. But perhaps he had felt that she--or rather of course
that someone--was there. For he could not possibly have felt that she,
Beryl Van Tuyn, was there looking in.

After drawing back Miss Van Tuyn walked slowly away. She was considering
something, debating something within herself. Should she go in and dine
alone in the restaurant? By doing so she would certainly make those two
who had treated her badly uncomfortable; she would probably spoil
the rest of their evening. Should she do that? Some indelicate devil
prompted her, urged her, to do it. It would "serve them right,"