and to return to her bronzes. Her clever visit to
Adela Sellingworth had evidently not achieved its object. In spite of
her so deliberate confession to Adela the latter had once more taken
possession of Craven.

Miss Van Tuyn felt angry and disgusted, even indignant, but she also
felt saddened and almost alarmed.

Knowing men very well, being indeed an expert in male psychology, she
realized that perhaps, probably even, her own action had driven Craven
back to his friendship with Adela. But that fact did not make things
more pleasant for her. She knew that she had seriously offended Craven.
She remembered the look in his face as he passed quickly by her and
Arabian in Glebe Place. He had not been to see her since, and had not
written to condole with her. She knew that she had outraged his pride,
and perhaps something else. Yet she could not make up her mind to leave
England and drop out of his life. To do that would be like a confession
of defeat. But it was not only her vanity which prompted her to stay on.
She had a curious and strong liking for Craven which was very sincere.
It was absolutely unlike the painful attraction which pushed her towards
Arabian. There was trust in it, a longing for escape from something
dangerous, something baleful, into peace and security. There was even a
moral impulse in it such as she had never felt till now.

What was she to do? She suffered in uncertainty. Her nerves were all
on edge. She felt irritable, angry, like someone being punished and
resenting the punishment. And she felt horribly dull. Her mourning
prohibited her from seeking distractions. People were gossiping about
her unpleasantly already. She remembered Dindie Ackroyde's warning, and
knew she had better heed it. She felt heartless because she was unable
to be really distressed about the death of her father. Old Fanny bored
her when she did not actively worry her. She was terribly sorry for
herself.

In the evening, while she was sitting alone in her room listlessly
reading a book on modern painting by an author with whose views she did
not agree, and looking forward to a probably sleepless night, there
was a knock on the door, and a rose cheeked page boy, all alertness and
buttons, tripped in with a note on a salver.

"Any answer?" she said.

"No, mum."

She took the note, and at once recognized Dick Garstin's enormous
handwriting. Quickly she opened it and read.

GLEBE.

Wed.

Dear B.--Does your mourning