"Oh, but Miss Van Tuyn performed that miracle!" said Craven, recovering
himself.

"I don't think so. You are too modest. But now, mind, I expect you to
come down to Coombe to lunch on the first fine Sunday, and to bring
Adela with you. Good night! Bobbie, where are you?"

And she followed Lady Wrackley and the young man with the turned-up nose
to a big and shining motor which had just glided noiselessly up.

"Damn the women!" muttered Craven, as he pushed through the crowd into
the ugly freedom of Shaftesbury Avenue.

CHAPTER III

Miss Van Tuyn and the members of the "old guard" went home to bed that
night realizing that Lady Sellingworth had had "things" done to herself
before she came out to the theatre party.

"She's beginning again after--how many years is it?" said Lady Wrackley
to Mrs. Ackroyde in the motor as they drove away from Shaftesbury.

"Ten," said Mrs. Ackroyde, who was blessed with a sometimes painfully
retentive memory.

"I suppose it's Zotos," observed Lady Wrackley.

"Who's Zotos?" inquired young Leving of the turned-up nose and the larky
expression.

"A Greek who's a genius and who lives in South Moulton Street."

"What's he do?"

"Things that men shouldn't be allowed to know anything about. Talk to
Bobbie for a minute, will you?"

She turned again to Mrs. Ackroyde.

"It must be Zotos. But even he will be in a difficulty with her if she
wants to have very much done. She made the mistake of her life when she
became an old woman. I remember saying at the time that some day she
would repent in dust and ashes and want to get back, and that then it
would be too late. How foolish she was!"

"She will be much more foolish now if she really begins again," said
Mrs. Ackroyde in her cool, common-sense way.

The young men were talking, and after a moment she continued:

"When a thing's once been thoroughly seen by everyone and recognized for
what it is, it is worse than useless to hide it or try to hide it.
Adela should know that. But I must say she looked remarkably well
to-night--for her. He's a good-looking boy."

"He must be at least twenty-eight years younger than she is."

"More, probably. But she prefers them like that. Don't you remember
Rochecouart? He was a mere child. When we gave our hop at Prince's she
was mad about him. And afterwards she wanted to marry Rupert Louth. It
nearly killed her when she found out he had married that awful girl who
called herself an actress.