oking at him closely.

"In her case some of them certainly are!" she said. "Oh, do look at them
turning the corner! If Cirella were here he would have a subject for one
of his most perfect caricatures. It is the leaning tower of Pisa with a
bat."

The left wing of Ambrose Jennings's cloak flew out as he whirled into
Regent Street by Lady Sellingworth's side.

CHAPTER VI

At the door of the Cafe Royal they stopped, and Miss Van Tuyn laid a
hand on Lady Sellingworth's arm.

"Do come in, dearest. It will really amuse you," she said urgently.
"And--I'll be truthful--I want to show you off to the Georgians as my
friend. I want them to know how wonderful an Edwardian can be."

"Please--please!" pleaded Jennings from under his sombrero. "Dick would
revel in you. You would whip him into brilliance. I know it. You admire
his work, surely?"

"I admire it very much."

"And he is more wonderful still when he's drunk. And to-night--I feel
it--he will be drunk. I pledge myself that Dick Garstin will be drunk."

"I'm sure it would be a very great privilege to see Mr. Garstin drunk.
But I must go home. Good night, dear Beryl."

"But the little Bolshevik! You must meet the little Bolshevik!" cried
Jennings.

Lady Sellingworth shook her deer-like head, smiling.

"Good night, Mr. Craven."

"But he is going to get you a taxi," said Miss Van Tuyn.

"Yes, and if you will allow me I am going to leave you at your door,"
said Craven, with decision.

A line appeared in Miss Van Tuyn's low forehead, but she only said:

"And then you will come back and join us."

"Thank you," said Craven.

He took off his hat. Miss Van Tuyn gave him a long and eloquent look,
which was really not unlike a Leap Year proposal. Then she entered the
cafe with Jennings. Craven thought at that moment that her back looked
unusually rigid.

A taxi was passing. He held up his hand. It stopped. Lady Sellingworth
and he got in, after he had given the address to the chauffeur.

"What a lovely girl Beryl Van Tuyn is!" said Lady Sellingworth, as they
drove off.

"She is--very lovely."

"And she has a lot of courage, moral courage."

"Is it?" he could not help saying.

"Yes. She lives as she chooses to live. And yet she isn't married."

"Would marriage make it all easier for her?"

"Much, if she married the man who suited her."

"I wonder what sort of a man that would be."

"So does she, I think. But she's a strange girl. I should not be