yr-like, the curtain fell. The play was at an end,
leaving the impression upon the audience that there is no end to the
life of a ruling passion in a man while he lives, that the ruling
passion can only die when he dies.

Miss Van Tuyn and Craven, standing up in the box, applauded vigorously.

"That's a true finish!" the girl said. "He's really a modern Baron
Hulot. When he's seventy he'll creep upstairs to a servant girl. We
don't change, I've always said it. We don't change!"

And she looked from Craven to Lady Sellingworth.

Moscovitch bowed many times.

"Well, Mr. Braybrooke," said Miss Van Tuyn, "I've seen some acting in
London to-night that I should like to show to Paris. Thank you!"

She was more beautiful and more human than Craven had ever seen her
before in her genuine enthusiasm. And he thought, "Great art moves her
as nothing else moves her."

"What do you say about it, dearest?" she said, as Craven helped her to
put on her cloak.

(Braybrooke was attending to Lady Sellingworth.)

"It's a great piece of acting!"

"And horribly true! Don't you think so?"

"I dare say it is," Lady Sellingworth answered.

She turned quickly and led the way out of the box.

In the hall they encountered the other quartet and stood talking to them
for a moment, and Craven noticed how Miss Van Tuyn had been stirred up
by the play and how silent Lady Sellingworth was. He longed to go back
to Berkeley Square alone with the latter, and to have a long talk; but
something told him to get away from both the white-haired woman and the
eager girl. And when the motor came up he said very definitely that he
had an engagement and must find a cab. Then he bade them good-bye and
left them in the motor with Braybrooke. As he was turning away to get
out of the crowd a clear, firm voice said to him:

"I am so glad you have performed the miracle, Mr. Craven."

He looked round and saw Mrs. Ackroyde's investigating eyes fixed upon
him.

"But what miracle?" he asked.

"You have pulled Adela Sellingworth out of the shell in which she has
been living curled up for over ten years."

"Yes. You are a prodigy!" said Lady Wrackley, showing her teeth.

"But I'm afraid I can't claim that triumph. I'm afraid it's due to Mr.
Braybrooke's diplomacy."

"Oh, no!" Mrs. Ackroyde said calmly. "Adela would never yield to his
cotton-glove persuasions. Besides, his diplomacy would shy away from
Soho."

"Soho!" said Craven, startled.

"Yes!"