about. They had learnt French; she had learnt Paris. From that
time onward she was probably the most truly cosmopolitan of all the
aristocratic Englishwomen of her day. Distinguished foreigners who
visited London generally paid their first private call on her. Her house
was European rather than English. She kept, too, her apartment in Paris,
and lived there almost as much as she lived in London. And, perhaps, her
secret wildness was more at home there.

Scandal, of course, could not leave her untouched. But her position in
society was never challenged. People said dreadful things about her, but
everyone who did not know her wanted to know her, and no one who knew
her wished not to know her. She "stood out" from all the other women in
England of her day, not merely because of her beauty--she was not more
beautiful than several of her contemporaries--but because of her gay
distinction, a daring which was never, which could not be, ill bred,
her extraordinary lack of all affectation, and a peculiar and delightful
bonhomie which made her at home with everyone and everyone at home with
her. Servants and dependents loved her. Everyone about her was fond of
her. And yet she was certainly selfish. Invariably almost she was kind
to people, but herself came first with her. She made few sacrifices,
and many sacrificed themselves to her. There was seldom a moment when
incense was not rising up before her altar, and the burnt offerings to
her were innumerable.

And all through these years she was sinking more deeply into slavery,
while she was ruling others. Her slavery was to herself. She was the
captive of her own vanity. Her love of admiration had developed into
an insatiable passion. She was ceaselessly in her tower spying out for
fresh lovers. From afar off she perceived them, and when they drew near
to her castle she stopped them on their way. She did not love them and
cast them to death like Tamara of the Caucasus. No; but she required of
them the pause on their travels, which was a tribute to her power. No
one must pass her by as if she were an ordinary woman.

Probably there is no weed in all the human garden which grows so fast as
vanity. Lady Sellingworth's vanity grew and grew with the years until
it almost devoured her. It became an idee fixe in her. A few people no
doubt knew this--a few women. But she was saved from all vulgarity of
vanity by an inherent distinction, not only of manner but of something
more intimate