s journey
was into the ineffable, and beyond the rim of the horizon towards the
satisfaction of the unexpressed, because inexpressible, desires. And
Marshall talked about Japanese art and presently about geishas, not
stupidly, but with understanding. And Craven though: "If only I were
going to Berkeley Square!" He had come down to earth, but in the
condition which yearns for an understanding mind. Lady Sellingworth
understood him. But now--he did not know. And he went with Marshall
drearily to the St. James's Club and went on hearing about geishas and
Japanese art.

The bell sounded in Berkeley Square, and a footman let in Sir Seymour
Portman, who was entirely unconscious that Fate had been working
apparently with a view to the satisfaction of his greatest desire. He
had long ago given up hope of being Adela Sellingworth's husband. Twice
that hope had died--when she had married Lord Manham, and when she had
married Sellingworth. Adela could not care for him in that way. But now
for many years she had remained unmarried, had joined him, as it were,
in the condition of being lonely. That fact had helped him along the
road. He could go to her and feel that he was in a certain degree
wanted. That was something, even a good deal, in the old courtier's
life. He valued greatly the welcome of the woman whom he still loved
with an undeviating fidelity. He was thankful, selfishly, no doubt--he
often said so to himself--for her loneliness, because he believed
himself able to cheer it and to alleviate it. And at last he had ceased
to dread any change in her way of life. His Adela had evidently at last
"settled down." Her vivacious temperament, her almost greedy love of
life, were abated. He had her more or less to himself.

As he mounted the staircase with his slow, firm step, holding his
soldierly figure very upright, he was looking forward to one of the
usual quiet, friendly conversations with Adela which were his greatest
enjoyments, and as he passed through the doorway of the drawing-room his
eyes turned at once towards the sofa near the big fireplace, seeking for
the tall figure of the woman who so mysteriously had captured his
heart in the long ago and who had never been able to let it out of her
keeping.

But there was no one by the fire, and the butler said:

"I will tell her ladyship that you are here, sir."

"Thank you, Murgatroyd," said Sir Seymour.

And he went to the fireplace, turned round, and began to warm hi