ing.

The second act of the play was more interesting than the first, but, as
Miss Van Tuyn said, the whole thing was rather a clever character study
than a solidly constructed and elaborately worked out play. It was
the fascination of Moscovitch which held the audience tight and which
brought thunders of applause when the curtain fell.

"If that man acted in French he could have enormous success in Paris,"
said Miss Van Tuyn. "You have chosen well," she added, turning to
Braybrooke. "You have introduced us to a great temperament."

Braybrooke was delighted, and still more delighted when Lady
Sellingworth and Craven both said that it was the best acting they had
seen in London for years.

"But it comes out of Russia, I suppose," said Lady Sellingworth. "Poor,
wonderful, horrible, glorious Russia!"

"Forgive me for a moment," said Braybrooke. "Lady Wrackley seems to want
me."

Indeed, the electric-light smile was being turned on and off in the
box opposite with unmistakable intention, and, glancing across, Craven
noticed that the young men had disappeared, no doubt to smoke cigarettes
in the foyer. Lady Wrackley and Mrs. Ackroyde were alone, and, seeing
them alone, it was easier to Craven to compare their appearance with
Lady Sellingworth's.

Lady Wrackley looked shiningly artificial, seemed to glisten with
artificiality, and her certainly remarkable figure suggested to him
an advertisement for a corset designed by a genius with a view to the
concealment of fat. Mrs. Ackroyde was far less artificial, and though
her hair was dyed it did not proclaim the fact blatantly. Certainly it
was difficult to believe that both those ladies, whom Braybrooke
now joined, were much the same age as Lady Sellingworth. And yet,
in Craven's opinion, to-night she made them both look ordinary,
undistinguished. There was something magnificent in her appearance which
they utterly lacked.

Braybrooke sat down in their box, and Craven was sure they were
all talking about Lady Sellingworth and him. He saw Braybrooke's
broad-fingered hand go to his beard and was almost positive his old
friend was on the defensive. He was surely saying, "No, really, I don't
think so! I feel convinced there is nothing in it!" Craven's eyes met
Lady Sellingworth's, and it seemed to him at that moment that she and he
spoke together without the knowledge of Miss Van Tuyn. But immediately,
and as if to get away from their strange and occult privacy, she said: