r?

"I wonder whether Beryl saw me when she came in," continued Lady
Sellingworth. "She saw you, of course."

"Yes, she saw me."

From the sound of Craven's voice, from the constraint of his manner,
Lady Sellingworth gathered the knowledge that her evening was spoilt.
A few minutes before she had been quivering with anxiety, had been
struggling to conquer the melancholy which, she knew, put her at a
disadvantage with Craven, had been seized with despair as she compared
her fate with his. Now she looked back at that beginning of the evening
and thought of it as happy. For Craven had seemed contented then. Now he
was obviously restless, ill at ease. He never looked down the room.
He devoted himself to her. He talked even more than usual. But she was
aware of effort in it all, and knew that his thoughts were with Beryl
Van Tuyn and the stranger who seemed vaguely familiar to her.

Formerly--with what intensity she remembered, visualized, the
occasions--Craven had been restless with Beryl Van Tuyn because he
wished to be with her; now he was restless with her. And she did not
need to ask herself why.

This remembrance made her feel angry in her despair. Her hatred of Beryl
revived. She recalled the girl's cruelty to her. Now Beryl had been
cruel to Craven. And yet Craven was longing after her. What was the good
of kindness, of the warm heart full of burning desires to be of use, to
comfort, to bring joy into a life? The cruel fascinated, perhaps were
even loved. Men were bored by any love that was wholly unselfish.

But was her love unselfish? She put that question from her. She felt
injured, wounded. It was difficult for her any longer to conceal her
misery. But she tried to talk cheerfully, naturally. She forced her lips
to smile. She praised the excellence of the cooking, the efforts of the
musicians.

Nevertheless the conversation presently languished. There was no
spontaneity in it. All around them loud voices were talking volubly in
Italian. She glanced from table to table. It seemed to her that everyone
was feeling happy and at ease except herself and Craven. They were ill
matched. She became horribly self-conscious. She felt as if people were
looking at them with surprise, as if an undercurrent of ridicule was
creeping through the room. Surely many were wondering who the painted
old woman and the young man were, why they sat together in the corner
by the window! She saw one of the musicians smile and whisper