remote, frigidly detached, she was never
affected. Now and then Craven had wondered about her, but he had never
guessed that she was acting a part. The charm of her was still active
about him, and it was the charm of apparent sincerity. To him so far the
false atmosphere seemed real, and he was not aware of the fear.

Lady Sellingworth feared being found out by Craven, and feared what
might happen if he found out that she was in love with him. She feared
her age and the addition each passing day made to it. She feared her
natural appearance, and now strove to conceal it as much as possible
without being unskilful or blatant. And she feared the future terribly.

For Time galloped now. She often felt herself rushing towards the abyss
of the seventies.

The worst of it all was that in humbug she was never at ease. Instead
of, like many women, living comfortably in insincerity, she longed to be
sincere. To love as she did and be insincere was abominable to her. To
her insincerity now seemed to be the direct contradiction of love. Often
when she was deceiving Alick Craven she felt almost criminal. Perhaps
if she had been much younger she might not have been so troubled in the
soul by the necessity for constant pretence. But to those who are of any
real worth the years bring a growing need of sincerity, a growing hunger
which only true things can satisfy. And she knew that need and suffered
that hunger.

She was feeling it now as she waited for Craven. She longed to be able
to let him see her as she was and to be accepted by him as she was.
But he would not accept her. She knew that. He did not want her as she
wanted him. He was satisfied with things as they were. She was at a
terrible disadvantage with him, for she was in his power, while he was
not in hers. He could ruin such happiness as she now had. But she could
not ruin his happiness. If he gave her up she would be broken, though
probably no one would know it. But if she gave him up he would not mind
very much, though no doubt his pride would be hurt. Perhaps, even now,
she was only a palliative in his life. Beryl Van Tuyn had evidently
treated him badly. He turned to others for some casual consolation.

Lady Sellingworth often wondered painfully what Craven felt about the
American girl. Was she only comforting Craven, playing a sort of dear
old mother's part to him? Did he come to her because he considered her
a skilful binder up of wounds? Could Beryl whenever sh