ing moods, of his way of getting a
thing on to canvas, of his views on colour and technique.

"It must be absorbingly interesting to watch such a man at work," Lady
Sellingworth said presently.

"It is. It's fascinating."

"And so that is the reason why you are staying so long in smoky old
London?"

"No, Adela, it isn't. At least, that's not the only reason."

The words were spoken slowly and were followed by a curiously conscious,
almost, indeed, embarrassed look from the girl's violet eyes.

"No?"

After a long pause Beryl said:

"You know I have always looked upon you as a book of wisdom."

"It's very difficult to be wise," said Lady Sellingworth, with a touch
of bitterness. "And sometimes very dull."

"But you are wise, dearest. I feel it. You have known and done so
much, and you have had brains to understand, to seek out the truth from
experience. You have lived with understanding. You are not like the
people who travel round the world and come back just the same as if they
had been from Piccadilly Circus to Hampstead Heath and back. One _feels_
you have been round the world when one is with you."

"Does one?" said Lady Sellingworth, rather drily. "But I fancied
nowadays the young thought all the wisdom lay with them."

"Well, I don't. And, besides, I think you are marvellously discreet."

"Wise! Discreet! I begin to feel as if I ought to sit on the Bench!"

Again there was the touch of bitterness in the voice. A very faint smile
hovered for an instant about Miss Van Tuyn's lips.

"Judging the foolish women! Well, I think you are one of the few who
would have a right to do that. You are so marvellously sensible."

"Anyhow, I have no wish to do it. But--you were going to tell me?"

"In confidence."

"Of course. The book of wisdom never opens its leaves to the mob."

"I want very much to know your opinion of young Alick Craven."

As she heard the word "young" Lady Sellingworth had great difficulty
in keeping her face still. Her mouth wanted to writhe, to twist to the
left. She had the same intense shooting feeling that had hurt her when
Seymour Portman had called Alick Craven a boy.

"Of Mr. Craven!" she said, with sudden severe reserve. "Why? Why?"

Directly she had spoken she regretted the repetition. Her mind felt
stiff, unyielding. And all her body felt stiff too.

"That's what I want to tell you," said Miss Van Tuyn, speaking with some
apparent embarrassment.

And immediately Lady Se