to the
companion beside him, and felt certain he was speaking about her, was
smiling, at some ugly thought which he had just put into words.

To an Italian she must certainly seem an old wreck of a woman, "_una
vecchia_," an object of contempt, or of smiling pity. She looked down at
her red dress, remembered the jewels in her ears and at her throat. How
useless and absurd were her efforts to look her best! A terrible phrase
of Caroline Briggs came into her mind: "I feel as if I were looking at
bones decked out in jewels." And again she was back in Paris ten years
ago; again she saw a contrast bizarre as the contrast she and Craven now
presented to the crowd in the restaurant. Before the eyes of her mind
there rose an old woman in a black wig and a marvellously handsome young
man.

Suddenly a thrill shot through her. It was like a sharp physical pain, a
sword-thrust of agony.

That profile which had seemed vaguely familiar to her just now, was it
not like his profile? She tried to reason with herself, to tell herself
that she was yielding to a crazy fancy, brought about by her nervous
excitement and by the mental pain she was suffering. Many men slightly,
sometimes markedly, resemble other men. One face seen in profile is
often very much like another. But the even dark brown of the complexion!
That was not very common, not the type of complexion one sees every day.

She glanced at the men near to her. Most of them were Italians and
swarthy. But not one had that peculiar, almost bronze-like darkness.

Beryl had spoken of "a living bronze."

Craven was speaking to her again. She forced herself to reply to him,
though she scarcely knew what she was saying. She saw a look of surprise
in the eyes which he fixed on her.

"Isn't it getting very hot?" she said quickly.

"It is rather hot. Shall I ask them to open the window a little? But it
is just behind you."

"It doesn't matter. I have brought my fan."

She picked the fan up and began to use it unsteadily.

"The room is so very crowded to-night," she murmured.

"Yes. No wonder with such cooking. Here is the Zabaione."

The waitress put two large glasses before them filled with the thick
yellow custard, then brought them a plate of biscuits.

Lady Sellingworth laid down the fan and picked up her spoon. She must
eat. But she did not know how she was going to force herself to do it.
Although she kept on saying to herself: "It's impossible!" she could
not get ri